Kenneth Grahame, 'The Wind in the Willows'
On Friday, Charlie couldn't concentrate on his work. He said he felt all wrong. He tried to practise his handwriting, but the letters came out wobbly. I felt his forehead: it was cool.
"Why don't you go and play for a bit?" I suggested. A few minutes later, he was creating a river out of blue Lego, spraying water over it and causing maritime disasters.
Michael came home for lunch and suggested we pack a picnic and go out into the sunshine. So we did.
We ate our sandwiches whilst watching the life on the river go past.
Later, I heard one of my favourite sounds: his giggling as he read one of his favourite 'Tintin' books.