Poor Tutor! He has been sobbing and thrashing on Audrey's bed, hands and feet flailing, as she, with her back turned to him on the floor, works on a puzzle, ignoring his noise. Eventually, without turning around, she asks, "Tutor, what is wrong with you? Why are you crying and crying?" He says, "Because you said I am not a trusted advisor." She says, truthfully, "Because you are not. You are just my babysitter." "I know," says Tutor with a heaving sob, "but you said you don't even need a babysitter." "Because I don't," says Audrey calmly. And to make it worse, she elaborates with a secret truth, "Momma told me yesterday that you need a babysitter more than I do." Tutor wails! "Ok," says Tutor sitting up eagerly, "I have an idea. You be the most trusted advisor and I will be the kid, ok?" Audrey rises, turns, draws herself up to her full height, with an imperious mien, like a Head Butler, or Privy Counselor, on parade. Her left hand is behind her back, her elbow crooked. The right arm is extended, pistoning in and out, with forefinger straight up. "Bla, bla, bla," she intones, in synchrony with the finger. Tutor rises and sits down cross-legged on the floor, his hands over his ears, his eyes closed. After a time, he says, "I know, let's both be trusted advisors, ok? I want to be one too!" So the lanky Tutor stands, his finger extended, facing a child not tall enough to reach his waist, whose extended finger is about as high as his knee. "First one to laugh loses, Tutor!," says Audrey. So they have a "bla, bla, bla" battle, getting louder and louder, with faces as solemn as can be, until the door opens, and there is Big, Big Momma, the Warrior Queen of Wall Street. "What is going on in here? I can't think with you shouting 'bla, bla, bla' like two complete morons." "We are trusted advisors!, Momma," shouts Audrey. And then it is Momma who laughs, and says, "Well, advice is best given in whispers." And so it is.