They look up.

“Hello Lucy,” says P.

“Hey Luce,” says J, slightly weakly.

“And Kids!” says P. “Kiiiiiids! Wassaaaap!“

Stanton fixes P with his gimlet-blue eyes. “I am four, you know,” he says severely.

And so far more mature than he was two weeks ago when he still loved the game intensely, greeting it with squeals and an attempt to grate the sound out himself in his wee voice.

Someone else wriggles hopefully.

J inclines her head gravely. “Lydia Henson,” she says portentously.

“Jennifer Jones,” comes the reply, followed by a lot of giggling. Lydia is a little over three, her mother being, as she put it, “a dismayingly fast mover.”

“How’s it going, babe?” asks P.

“Ach,” says Lucy, settling and dragging Kids to heel, “just – scuse me – back from the clinic.”

“You okay?”

“Well, yeah… Sorry, would you mind just…? Cheers. Yeah, I’m fine, everyone’s fine, but I’m knackered now. Anticlimaxes are draining, know what I mean?”

She notices J’s raised eyebrow. “You get yourself worked up for the implications of bad news, so when it’s good news it’s kinda…” she gestures.

“It’s like you get far more stressed when the crisis is over,” says J.

She nods. “Exactly.” She sighs. “I should get us drinks.”

“Yes,” say J, firmly. She moves over to the counter to order. J smiles abstractedly at the children and turns to P.

“Fundamentally bad timing, right?” says P.

“I concur. May I be so bold as to suggest a recapitulation and further exposition at a more convenient time?”

“So…” slowly “your request was to be in the affirmative?”

“Indeed.” Deep breath. “And I feel a further necessity for pejorative language for venting of my faecal emotional situation.

“Catharsis? Why certainly, dearest compadre. And may I just say how much I am admiring the restraint you are placing on your desire to express yourself utilising scatological and fornicatory terms of reference.”

“My most heartfelt appreciation.” J places her hands over her chest.

“Why are you talking funny?” demands Stanton, who has been flicking his head back and forth like a tennis umpire during this exchange.

“Well, darling,” says P, “J and I don’t want you to understand what we’re saying and children absorb far more than we realise because we’ve forgotten…”

“… and we don’t have any other languages in common apart from English that we can speak particularly fluently…” says J.

“I speak German, Hebrew, Sign Language, a little Ancient Greek and even less Welsh.”

“I speak French and Italian, a little Spanish and even less Welsh than P.”

“You see our dilemma?”

“Deeyemma!” exults Lydia, who, unlike her brother, has mostly been focussed on, variously, getting her seat buckles undone, ther whereabouts of her mum, the sound kicking her seat vigorously makes, attempting to reach the cup and saucer near her, which P had absently and reflexively moved well out of her reach as a result, and then making aaah aah aah noises while kicking and flicking at the belts. It’s amazing the difference ten months makes.

“She’ll be out of that on her own soon,” remarks J. “She already knows the key is in pressing those bits of the buckle – she’s just not quite dextrous enough yet.”

“Must be frustrating,” agrees P.

“I did it,” smugs Stanton.

“Yeah, but your auntie Katherine got stoned one night and decided to spend three hours teaching you, didn’t she?”

“To be fair,” says J, “I think he learned in spite rather than because of her efforts…”

“Mmmmh,” says P.

Lucy is back. “Are you impugning my twin?” she smiles, distributing drinks, including ones for P and J, they are slightly embarrassed to note.

“She’s been saving us the bother.”

“Oh really?” She raises her eyebrows. “I haven’t seen her for a while – although we were both due to go to the Gretchen Thing yesterday evening, but…”

“… Gretchen timetabled you away from each other, right?” says P.

She nods, lips pursed in a wry smile.

“Martin, Jane and I ignored her and came together.” There is an element of crow in P’s tone of voice.

“How could you, P?!” Laura’s mock-distress is delightful.

“Weeell,” a deprecating hand-wave. “Are you telling me you never rebel against Madam’s orders?”

“As if!” scoffs Lucy. “Although I don’t think Gretchen agrees with me about the educational merits of her exhibition for pre-school children.”

“Oh, congratulations!” P’s happier outburst turns more heads of nearby patrons than the earlier one. “A family coup indeed!”

“Heh, okay, so what did Kath do, then?”

P coughs, suddenly overcome.

“What?“ says Lucy with meaning. There’s a quick flurry of BSL between them. J ruefully determines anew to at least learn the alphabet sometime. Stanton leans towards her.

“They’re talking about a lady in a loo,” he whispers. “Why?”

“I don’t know, mate,” she confides, “But if I find out I’ll let you know in twelve years’ time, how about it?”

He fixes her with that Little Old Man look he’s been determined to adopt as part of his new, more mature persona befitting one of his great age. Then says “Okay, then.”

“Okay,” says J, and they shake on it. She hopes profoundly that he forgets, as she has an annoying habit of fulfilling her promises.

“Did they break anything?” asks P out loud.

“No,” says Lucy fondly, “but they were very loud about that nudey lady and Lyd thought the hors d’oeuvres tasted like poo.”

Stanton sniggers before he can stop himself. P looks over. “And what did you make of it?”

“I thought it was…” he screws his face up… “scared.”

“Scary, was that?”

“No,” he shakes his head firmly. “scared like a little kid.”

“Jings,” says J, and they’re all quiet for a while.