Monday, 23 July 2012

Delivering

I'm seven and I'm going delivering with you. You went to my school and you asked them, in your ponderous, old style way, if I could, and they said yes, and i'm on my way to go delivering with you. We sit in the front of the Zephyr, the big white Zephyr, the back seat full of parcels, and I'm beside you on the bench seat in the front. You're driving, I'm navigating, the map open in my lap. And the hedges are high either side of the road, and the sky is blue, and life is good.

In St Ives, you talk to your client, and I wander off to the beach. I slip on the rocks and fall into a rock pool, my feet are wet and my trousers are wet, but I know it will be ok, I'm not scared, I'm with you. You don't scream, you don't shout, you don't hit me. You take my wet shoes and wet socks and wet trousers, and you wind down the windows, and wind them back up, then we drive down the lanes, with them flapping beside us, the socks and the shoes and the trousers, like flags, like emblems, drying in the wind.

And the world is safe, as we drive the narrow lanes, and life is good, and there's nothing to fear.

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