Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Harold held up the hundred pages of foolscap. “She’s a child prodigy, I tell you,” he said looking at Lucy who, at the grand old age of five, had written a whole play by herself, albeit in green felt-tipped pen.
Jasfoup took the pages off him and riffled through them. “Pah!” he said. “She’s no such thing.” He handed the pages back to Harold but smiled at Lucy. “Clever she might be,” he said, ruffling her hair. “But I asked her to write something original which this patently isn’t. This is just a word-for-word copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”