She did stab me in the leg yesterday with the seam ripper, now you mention it. And laughed when I squealed. Perhaps dastardly children are in the genes. I blame you.

Lizzie: I have not your Firefly, didn’t I take it up to you? No, that was Black Books. You may borrow Garden State, however, if I can borrow Doogie Howser.

It must be said, however, that Firefly is in fact awesome. Did she nick my copy? I was rather hoping to bring it back with me. There is a limit to the number of times one can turn to Doogie Howser in moments of stress. I have not reached it, acourse, but it is a theoretical possibility. I have also to retrieve Wit, which I shall inflict on my devoted students, and Garden State, for the benefit of the love of my tiny life. I shall need a spacious valise.

Remember that I was the one who let you cook in my kitchen. And have piano lessons. And who took you places. (I don’t mean to the Dental clinic, I mean to movie premieres in the middle of the night, and to your Grandfather’s funeral and to University when you were barely old enough to catch the bus by yourself.) And, now that I come to think of it, halfway around the world on an aeroplane; don’t dismiss that last one lightly - I could have left you in Boston.

And made you an Eowyn costume. And a wedding dress.

Consider that one day you, too, might be old. And for all you know, you might end up quoting Mary Poppins and humming The Impossible Dream while you try to remember where you put the potatoes. Do not scoff. It’s a sobering thought, no?

I am heartened, though, to know that your severe and restricted childhood has not entirely killed your inner quirks, and that you are still willing to try with me.

I remain, chastened and subdued,

Your Mother.