BEFORE Michael Ormsby got into mischief, his big brown eyes would dob him in. They would start smiling and people knew he was up to something.
He'd wander off, out of sight, chuckling at his plans. Delighted at how clever he was.
He liked getting into strife almost as much as he loved oranges, the smell of eucalyptus and being king of the castle.
When he played on swings he wouldn't swing. He'd climb to the highest point and stand with his hands in the air. It was the top of his world and he'd never fallen. Not in all his nine years.
He'd splash around in the bath, play for hours feeling the water wash over his perfect skin. And when it tired him out he'd burrow his face into someone's shoulder for a hug.