A morning with the dear little ladies

The taxi shuddered and screeched as the driver stopped and started his way through breakfast traffic and I hoped my stomach would stay where it belonged. As he miscalculated stopping distances or the aberrations of other drivers I held on, sticking it out on an errand of mercy.
The dear ladies dearest Daddy is not well but, being an Englishman of the best sort, he doesn't make a fuss but bears up wonderfully,and I was going to sit with them so that he and Yummy Mummy could go to hospital for an emergency procedure that's best left un-described.

Finally, we slide to a halt outside the blue door which swung open before I had chance to knock, and piping voices ordered me in to observe the ritual of breakfast.
Small,curly fingers delicately held triangles of toast spread with blackberry jam,pinkie fingers akimbo, and proceeded to cram the whole piece into rose-bud mouths and describe indistinctly what would be happening while Poorly Daddy was away.
Their french plaits gently swing, particularly Miss Fourandahalf, who as the eldest deludes herself into believing she is in charge of Miss Almostthree, and rushes around organising in imperious tones reminiscent of her mother.

Both of them have the agility of gazelles, pirouetting and gambolling, but Miss Almostthree being a little more earthy than her sister tends to be more disconcerting.
Seeing her other granny take off her top to apply deodorant, Miss A strolled past and commented "HaHa-Nudey Bum!" She also heckled an eminent politician with her harmonica on a recent visit.
This same Miss scaled the back of the futon, balanced herself on the back, behind me, and ruffled my hair-"I want your earrings, Nanny". The curly fingers tickled the sides of my face,jabbed at the cloisonne discs, paused, then gave them a tug "just to see if they're in properly".
After almost throttling me with enthusiasm, she relaxed, re-adjusted her position, and suddenly her plump toes and stocky little feet appeared, one on either side of my face.
The little piggies wiggled closer and closer until almost touching and her chuckling voice asked..."Cheesy?"
I agreed.
"Not mine, yours of course!"

Miss Fourandahalf, meanwhile, perused the shelf of dvds, running her finger professionally along the spines, her long plait draped over one shoulder. Poised and deceptively fragile she plays the butterfly. Shall it be this one or that?
She makes the choice, dvd is inserted and play button pressed, and she then proceeds to give me a run down of the whole plot, it's subvert and overt themes, who says what,when and how. She is a small version of her academic parents hypothesising in an assignment
Never was "Wallace and Gromit- The Curse of the Were Rabbit" so cogently explained.

I am a willing slave and take my orders obediently. I serve their snacks with all the deference of the Head Waiter at The Ivy and these patrons are demanding and onerous.
Poorly Daddy and Yummy Mummy ring as good parents should to see if the girlies are keeping me in check-all has gone to plan and they are on the way home.
"Better tidy up" says Miss F scurrying round to collect all the bits of paper we have cut and torn, while Miss A says
"No way"
and continues on her rampage, using me as an assault course.

Do I care?
Do I Hell?!
They can use me as they choose.
They are gorgeous, invigorating, endlessly questing, humorous, bewitching- a pair of elves who dwell in the world of humans and run circles around us.