There’s a park just down the road from where we live that The Boy and I sometimes go. Sometimes we walk, with his little hand in mine and sometimes he takes his scooter – belting along at a rate of knots.
Last Saturday was a perfect Melbourne spring day, not too hot, maybe some rain in the air.
We get to the park and The Boy says;
“Just sit on that seat Dad and don’t move unless I tell you.”
So I sat on the seat and watched him race over to the climbing bars. There were a couple of other kids his age, watched over by dads with faces that suggested they’d seen a bit too much of life than was good for them. The kids all played happily together in that mysterious confederation that all small boys seem to understand while I watched.
Some young men and women, probably in their twenties, kicked a footy around while another group playing with a Frisbee.
After about an hour we walked home for dinner.
If I was a pompous nuffie like – say – Helen Razer or Clem Bastow*, I’d work something in like “and then I realised how truly lucky I was” or “and I then realised we’re all the same underneath” or some other sick-inducing homily of the style the Age seems so fond of these days.
But I’m not, so I won’t.
*Or if I was Catherine Deveny, I could slip in “and then I realised, God’s a cunt”.