Yesterday my group of home-educated kids came round and we wrote poems to woodlice.  There was a lot of kindly louse handling, and not a few moments of losing them in the sofa or capturing them as they made for the safety of Under the Rug.  We talked about their habits, their food, the length of their lives and the pleasing fact that a mother woodlouse carries her eggs in a little pouch, marsupial-style, until they hatch out.  We wrote and read aloud, and re-wrote.