She’s her mother’s daughter
She reads slowly, and lets the children chatter about each page. It’s a British imprint, which becomes obvious at the start of the race.
“What’s a ‘cock’, Emma?”
Showing remarkable aplomb for an almost-eighteen-year-old, Emma answers the question simply. Nary a snicker to be heard.
“It’s the rooster, sweetie. In some places, they call a rooster a ‘cock’. See him standing there? The rooster is going to start the race.”
She continues with the story. A line later, she stops.
“You know, it’s pretty hard to read this and not hear something entirely different.”
I haven’t been paying attention. “Read what?”
Emma clears her throat and repeats the line with Import and Drama.
“The cock… swelled up… ready… to give the signal.”
Not nearly as aplombish as my daughter, I snicker. May even have sniggered like a nine-year-old schoolboy.
“You, young lady, have a filthy mind.”
Aplomb gone to the wind, she snickers right back.
“Uh-huh. And where did I get that from?”