This morning was a get up early and make espresso and get in the car morning. Boy was reading, Mr and me doing our habitual tree spotting. No mistletoe grows in our patch of the world, we don’t know why. Do the birds that eat the seeds not travel beyond a certain point? If Mr could fly he would go everywhere. He doesn’t understand why birds should take their abilities for granted and be rooted to a territory. Being rooted and having wings seems contrary to him; an interesting point, I concede, but one unlikely to cause a finch any sleepless nights. If death leaves a spirit-self, Mr’s ghost will be swooping the skies, while mine will be tumbling surf. Since the sky and the sea are always touching, we can still hang out together.
On the return journey, we view blossoms; the hawthorns are looking lively; and play the family travelling game- making phrases from car registration letters, which degenerates so rapidly into making naughty phrases that it is called ‘Three Letter Filth.’ It is cleverly creative, but not repeatable outside the car.