… I loved the rain, real pouring, can’t see your feet from the splashing rain. I would walk up the gutters letting my shoes fill with water until the socks slip-slid inside and imagined floating on the surface of the mini torrent, flying down the street, gurgling down a drain and emerging in a land of yellow with banks to roll down and small cakes to eat. And I would go home with my raincoat a shapeless saturated cape hanging off my slender shoulders and mum would sigh and rub me till I glowed pink and gave me small cakes for tea.
Now I enjoy blissful days like today when I walk a foot from the kerb and remember that little boy and put him in stories of bravery and fear and hope and, occassionally rain and forget to feed him cakes. And I go home and make myself some tea and think I’m not much different 50 years on…
…except that little boy really believed his imaginings might happen.
Which, I suppose, is as good an explanation of what age does as any, I think.
But at least I still have small cakes for tea.