Oh pretty! In the lanes, Little Granddaughter sing-songs delight; plucks the white bells from their stems: why would anyone want to pick the stems? She peers avidly inside at the green petal stripes, the stamen's yellow flame. With these treasures she can buy several elephants.
(That plain line of stem? A technicality.)
At home, the elephant food must be mixed by hand. There are other things to do: sweep up, chop root veg, fill up the washing machine, reflect on life. But the elephants are hungry, Little Granddaughter says. Four bowls of acorns should suffice.
Partially hypnotised by repetitive acorn pouring, Nam-ma looks up. Little Granddaughter presses the clear bottle to her face, distorts the familiar grin. Nam-ma bounces with surprised laughing.
Oh, funny! At the table they sit, two warped chortlers.