Right, I said, where are the instructions from your teacher?
She told me here weren’t any.
I disputed her assertion heatedly. Everyone knows nine-year-olds can’t be trusted to remember ANYTHING. There had to be instructions.
The eldest steadfastly maintained there weren’t. I sighed and suggested we focus on the school 100 years ago, looked up a few old photos on the computer and downloaded them. But I refused to do anything more until I had proper DETAILS.
And then I promptly forgot about it. Life tends to proceed at a rather cracking pace these days.
The other night, “the talk” finally popped back into my head and I asked the eldest whether she had any new information about it.
She said: “Oh that. We did it last Friday.”
Now the eldest isn’t the most proactive of souls, so I was pretty sure she hadn’t rustled up a two-minute speech all on her lonesome.
So I asked what she’d done.
“I got up and gave a speech,” she said blithely.
“I took notes during everyone else’s speeches.”
I can’t decide whether to be ashamed or proud of her ingenuity.