Having enjoyed three games of Connect 4 in the shade of the Queensland frangiapani (which has not flowered, so has not yet started to affect my sinuses) on the back lawn;

and having then suggested that we take our scooters for a ride;

and having had that suggestion gleefully accepted – ‘mum, you rock’;

and having scootered around the corner;

and down the street (‘who is having more fun’ the neighbours gleefully cry as they always do and it isn’t you, not really, because you don’t like the vibrations through your shoe and you worry for your boy, but you laugh back because it’s the neighbourly thing to do);

and through the park and past the skate park (‘one day I’d love to do that’ – ‘would you, we’ll see’);

and your heart sinks at the thought, the very thought, but one day he’ll have a skateboard and do things you won’t even know, but for now you scooter on;

across the railway line (the next train. to depart. from. platformfour will. now depart from…);

and down the street (gee, that dog gave me a fright);

and having chosen our DVDs (Jim Jarmusch retrospective for Sunday night now that Grey’s Anatomy is gone and ‘how about if you try one that I suggest and then you can choose whichever one you want, yes, The Lorax, that’s a good idea put back Over the Hedge‘);

and gone to the shop where they no longer sell the cream that was Moroccon Rose;

and having, while you are standing in line, your boy take you by the hand and rub your back and put his arm around you just as he did in the market this morning at the apple stall;

and then deciding you will go home through the school where your boy has swung across the monkey bars;


after making the effort all year;

and your heart as warm as the day;

and follow-the-leader and dinosaur paws;

and having then scootered around that great big square and wasn’t that the bitumen they had at your own school and you have heard the echo of basketball bounces past and goodness me isn’t life sometimes all it’s supposed to be;

and having then gone back the way you have come;

until you are back at the corner where you – the adult, the grown woman, having, it is true, more fun than the child, or at the very least as much as he – stacked your scooter;

and felt your chin scrape;

and your tooth (the one that’s already chipped), hit the ground with a thunk;

and your nose;

and grit in your eye;

and isn’t it silly the things you think, but it’s true, these trousers aren’t old and they weren’t cheap and they’re black and you don’t have that many clothes and there will be a hole in the knee;

and having seen that your boy, already safely home, but wondering where you are, come back to the gate to see you limping home, and saying ‘mum…your nose…there’s blood’;

and, you, not crying in front of him, and he:

can I watch a DVD;

and you:

applying your own betadine.