I checked the status of the boys. On the swings. Eight-year-old Max mounted higher and higher. Bet he won’t last five minutes before he jumps and scrapes his knees. Liam, six wiggled in his rubber sling. Two minutes before he yells out for a helping push.
‘Are you there?’ Jemima reminded me of her presence on the phone.
‘Yeah, I’m in Fatsgalf Hill, actually at the local park.’ I strode up to Liam and his swing all twisted ready to spring into a spin. Last thing I wanted was a dizzy vomiting boy. We’d left his mother in her interpretation of the “flu”, laid up in bed and bucket standing vigil by the bedside. More like hang-over, if you ask me. I slowly unwound Liam and his swing. ‘What happened to you? Last Sunday you never came, and I’ve been trying to contact you all week.’