Once upon a time there were two four-year-olds in a tent. "Have you got blue ones?" asked Hannah, the dark-haired one. "Yes, I have, I've got two blue ones," said Mella, the strawberry blonde. "Are you going to eat that thing?" asked Hannah. "No, I'm not. I'm not eating that thing. I don't like it," replied Mella. "Good," said Hannah. "I'm not eating that thing, either."
I stood there for a few minutes listening, feeling vaguely voyeuristic, but then that's never stopped me eavesdropping before. They were sitting in our tent, which at their request we had pitched on the sittingroom floor. "I go to ballet class. Do you go to ballet class?" I could hear Hannah saying to Mella. "I go to ballet school. I don't go to ballet class," said Mella. "Oh," said Hannah. "I go to ballet school, too."
They had a torch in there, and two lunch boxes, which I had filled with Hula Hoops, a handful of blue M&Ms and half a buttered pancake each. The pancake was my co-childminder's idea. "They don't like the pancakes," I whispered to him, feeling quietly vindicated. I mean, buttered pancakes, of all things. You might as well give them custard creams, which was his original suggestion. (He's from Co Armagh.)
When it's not your full-time job, you go to great lengths to entertain the two four-year-olds who are sleeping over at your house. You don't do this kind of thing normally, so you try to create conditions that are pleasant for small people. There is a pre-sleepover visit to Easons, for sparkly pens and a finger-puppet kit. Coloured paper is hunted down. Paints. Crayons. Pencils. A pencil sharpener. There is a trip to the late-night supermarket for re-formed chicken and crinkle-cut chips and cartons of juice. You have learned from bitter experience that everything purchased must have an identical twin - stickers, cards, more puppets - because the first question Hannah will ask when these things are handed out is: "And is Mella's the same as mine?" There is a certain relief in being able to answer truthfully: "Exactly the same, yes."
When they began to feel claustrophobic in the tent - which, in fairness to them, still smelt faintly of Electric Picnic - they decided to put on a puppet show for us. What I mean is that they giggled hysterically under the kitchen table for an hour, then produced a nonsensical tale that involved Pinocchio wanting to get married to the blue fairy and old man Gepetto not being best pleased about this development. It was clear they hadn't really worked hard enough on the structure of the show. I tried to tell them about all good stories having a beginning, middle and end, but they just laughed, and, anyway, it was time to put the chips and nuggets in the oven and leave them to dress up in fairy outfits. "We need you to be a witch chasing us fairy princesses," they said. So I did. I was so good I almost scared myself.
Dinnertime was relatively uneventful. "I hate peas," said Mella. "I hate peas," agreed Hannah. My co-childminder got on with making our dinner while I read the bedtime story and tucked them into the tent. Downstairs, we cracked open a bottle of champagne we'd been saving and discussed the adorableness of our guests the way real parents must. It didn't last long.
The first time they got up was to complain about the tent and the sleeping bags. Too hot, apparently. I got them settled into the bed. Half an hour later our viewing of a James Bond film was interrupted by the news that the duvet was too big. I swapped the duvet for two dressing gowns. "Is Mella's the same as mine?" said Hannah. "No," I said. She must have seen something in my eyes that told her it would be unwise to continue that line of questioning. There was another interruption concerning the lack of cuddly toys, specifically Pluto, in our house. And another when they had a sudden and urgent need for a glass of milk.
The fifth time they got up it was for one of them to use the toilet. The other one had banged her head and wanted a cold cloth to press against her injury. I took a relatively clean tea towel, scrunched it up in the ice compartment of the fridge and made a big deal of folding it in what I hoped was a professional manner. I led them up the stairs, gave them a monkey - the only cuddly toy in the house - and promised that, next time, they could bring their own menagerie of soft things.
As I brought them into the bedroom Hannah wanted to tell me something. "It's just," she said in a small voice, clutching the cloth to her head, "we miss our mammies, and we have only you. And can I ask you something? Why did you have to be such a creepy witch today? It was too scary for us." You live and you learn. The end.
roisiningle@irish-times.ie