The running girl

Picture the scene, if you will. A late night, a mildly drunken (and bloody cold) bike ride home, avoiding the detritus of youth resplendent in sheer stockings bent double on the promenade, skipping the worst of the hills, and arriving at a sleeping house rather flustered, and very much ready for bed. The door opens. Primarily because I put the key in and turned it before pushing, but let’s not spoil the mood. I begin the trial of manoeuvring the bike into the hallway before realising that that ball of ginger mischief is three feet away, having spotted the outside world and, more to the point, an opportunity for a stab at freedom. Well, when he sees freedom it really is conditional. Conditional on his knowing damn well the food will continue to flow. Continue reading