What does Nana do on her day off?
Wendy, Michael, and John can’t be much of a problem.
They’re such Darling children – the future of Great Britain, kneaded and cut out of the thick upper crust, starched oxford souls sewn tight to silver spines, stiff upper lips refusing to pucker around a whistle or a kiss.
Most of their time is spent balancing exotic accents on the ends of nasal syllables.
These are not the hooligans who play with matches in highly flammable closets, the ruffians who roll classmates for tea and crumpet money, the urchins who draw filthy graffiti on the whitened walls of the puritan pysche.
No. Not Wendy, Michael, and John – the Darlings.
The worst mischief they can imagine is to wear mother’s and father’s conservative chapeaux and waltz (dare say it, waltz!) around their baby blueblood nursery in imitation of some madcap version of a Victorian soiree.
Nana undoubtedly wiles away her working hours in the mundane drudgery of guardianship, retrieving a silk stocking here, fetching cod liver oil there, all the while enduring the ignominy of an inane nanny head covering.
It is a dull and dreary lot, even for the family pet.
So…what does Nana do on her day off?
Now there is a story to rival that of Neverland’s mancub, Mr. Barrie.
Perhaps one day I will sprinkle flea dust over the nursery surroundings and follow her adventure.
Good Nana. Sweet Nana. Nana gone feral on her private day off, howling pathetic profanities of the working class at an apathetic moon, rolling insanely in the detritus of unwritten storylines, burying the gnawed shadow of another unsuspecting Pan.