Sonshine is terrible for blagging a lift home from school. He stands next to his wee friend (the one who eats duck) and looks balefully at friend's mother until she offers him a lift home.
A couple of weeks ago he emerged from the gleaming silver 4 x 4 clutching a family-sized yoghurt pot, from which a slender green plant clung nervously to a kebab stick.
'This,' he announced to me with all the awe and gravitas of a man introducing the Brazillian lap-dancing girlfried to his mother, 'is Wilfred.'
I looked at Wilfred's spindly green neck with much the same concern as aforementioned mother might regard a lap-dancing girlfriend. 'He's very...slender...for such a tall plant, isn't he?'
In a flurry of floppy leaves, Sonshine thrust the yoghurt pot into my hands: 'You need to look after him.'
Now, some of you may remember that I'm not hellish good with plants (see: greenhouse massacre
) and I was pretty sure that some hideous fate lay in store for poor Wilfred at my hands.