A clear blue Saturday morning of the May bank holiday weekend. We are finally teaching Noah to cycle and in the park among Victorian trees on flat ground, I walked and he wobbled past the tennis courts, scattering people and their dogs into the undergrowth as they dived for cover and I pretended he wasn’t my son.
A tennis ball, served viciously by a chap who clearly didn’t like his girlfriend shot past her and wedged itself in the chain-link fence. Half in and out, squeezed in the middle like a belt was trying to give it a waist. It reminded me of many panna cottas I’ve eaten in the past. Rubbery, chewy and solid lumps of sugary milk sickly with lavender or raspberry coulis as if it were still 1987.
And like Noah on his bicycle, a good…
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