On some days I look after an 8-year-old boy called Daniel. He has a friend who is called Aron, and Aron is also 8. Sometimes Daniel and Aron are spies, and they follow me around the house and definitely aren’t EVER seen by me, and I NEVER hear them giggle when I turn around suddenly to see who’s there. When they’re not spies, Daniel and Aron play football. Sorry, did I say Daniel and Aron? I meant Cristiano Ronaldo and Michael Owen. Don’t ask me how they get here from mainland Europe every day, but they run around the living room practising their moves and in the process, skilfully avoiding the glass coffee table, the porcelain vase, the television… most of the time.
There is a sign on Daniel’s door which the boys wrote slowly and stiltingly yesterday. It reads:
FREE ENTRY for people named Daniel or Aron — WARNING — Do not enter without the answers:
1. How many situps does Ronaldo do every day?
2. What number is Barry on the England team?
3. How old is Ingvild.
I do not know who Ingvild is, so I sadly can’t enter.