'Gronmere,' Little Granddaughter says. [Transitioning the name previously spoken as Nam-ma.] 'My flowers are getting Very Big in the [a pause here: aware of the word 'polytunnel' uncertain how to turn it to sound] shed. Very Big.'
'Yes.' Gronmere is blowing up a balloon, the sort that can be folded into symbolic shapes. 'What shall we make?' [Expects the answer 'a flower.']
'Milk for a chicken.'
'Milk for a chicken? Made from a balloon?'
'Yes.' [Laughs, as though Gronmere's puzzlement is surely faked for her amusement.]
Outside, a continent of cloud drifts by. Rain flattened grass eases vertical. The lawn hops with happy blackbirds. Leaves of the iris wave, spear straight.
'Sword fight?' Gronmere suggests.