My mother’s story about my first childhood pearl:
The Winter. February 25 degrees on the street. My mother takes me to kindergarten. A terrible butterfly. Mother through the wind asks me:
Q: Is it cold for you?
I: Unselective drum under the shell
Q: Where are you cold? In the pen? In the feet?
I: * freed from the shirt, with a loud voice * Mama, I am cold in Grishka!