Happily, they're still rearing them

There's an obviously gifted child of about six on the bus this late afternoon, her long-suffering Daddy bringing her on home as best he can.

She's fizzing with light and life and insists on sitting at the upstairs front window looking out onto the roadway ahead.

Two things strike me right between the eyes as she looks out on the world.

"Daddy," she says happily, as the bus slides along over the painted ghost islands and traffic lanes. "The bus is eating all the lines...!"

She's full of talk, her mind alive to possibilities. I'm fascinated. Then, at the bottom of the road, where the Council's trees are springing into first late leaf of the season, she gasps:

"Daddy! The trees all have lots of hands!"

"Branches," says Daddy.

"No, Daddy. Their leaves are hands."

And they were. All pointing upwards at the sun in little finger clusters.