The snow of a few weeks ago has melted and the sun has come out in Skye. I’ve spent more time outside than in this week, and have been drinking more water than coffee.
I wore Isla’s sunglasses over mine when I picked her up at nursery, because when I do that it makes her laugh. And her laughter is brighter than the sun that’s come out, dried us up and slightly fried our brains.
This week has included road-trips and picnics and stopping to let cows and sheep cross the road.
Isla made friends with two dogs, and conquered actually jumping on the trampoline. Up to now, she’d just been standing in the middle looking really excited about a time in the future when she actually took a jump.
The future is now. Or something.
One of the road-trips of the week was to check out a second-hand treadmill that now lives in Neil’s home-office. (How many hyphens can I fit into one garden-path sentence? Well.)
Neil actually used the treadmill this morning, while Isla and I played hide-and-seek. Very early this morning.
We then made Isla go out and wash the car. Isla asked to go out and help Neil wash the car. I followed after with a book and the vain hope of getting a tan on my other arm.
If we were having coffee, I’d tell you I miss you. That I wish I was in Edinburgh listening to Constance Hall with you. Or running with the books with you at The Strand. Or helping you avoid writing up your placement notes. Or having coffee with you. In Australia. Or Glasgow. In your living-room. Or in my kitchen.
In Levittown. Or Miller Place. In this year. Or 1987.
I’d ask about your week. And your life. I’d throw you a book. And give you a hug. And we’d watch Isla on her trampoline. Because I have a kid. And she has a trampoline.
Hi. Have a coffee.
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