Lost

Early morning, and I go into my daughter's room to wake her. I find her sat on her bed, motionless, morose. Rather than my usual chirpy morning routine I am flooded with concern. Something must be wrong.

"Are you ok?" I ask.

"I've lost Doris," she croaks.

I'm not sure I've heard her correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

"I've lost Doris."

Presumably Doris is one of the vast array of dolls and soft toys that take over the bed. It isn't a name I recall but I could name most of the ones I can see, so maybe she is lost.

"Doris?" I query.

Her voice is fading, hoarse and raspy. "My card," she explains.

A light switches on. All becomes clear in my mind as I remember the Moshi Monster cards that are so precious to her and the joy of the previous day's acquisition.

She looks at me, all forlorn, for her world is falling apart.

"And I've lost my voice," she whispers and bursts into tears.

Why is it, at these tender moments, all I want to do is laugh?

(For info, both Doris and voice have been recovered!)