Hazel picked up the sticks and hit the xylophone bars with all the strength her nine and three quarter years could muster. Her aim was projection rather than subtlety. Squashed egg and cress that was a little too historic flew out from under the bars onto the zebra-striped pouffe my mother had brought back from Tunisia.
'I'm going to sleep over at Harriett's house tonight,' she announced proudly.
'Harriett's mum doesn't do egg sandwiches.'
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