It also puts potty training into focus
Venturing into London now seems luxurious. After more than a year of desk-clasping, I have bits of work that take me into town and the degree to which I enjoy this surprises me. I used to hate intra-city travelling. The grimace of sitting on dusty seats, packed tight with coughing, edgy commuters. Of glowering at whatever zesty little fight was going on between that guy and that other guy who decided to get on at rush hour wearing a backpack the size of a family car.
Now I glory in it, not least because so many parts of the process bear an unreal tinge. There’s something melancholy about the ads that have long since passed in and out of season. I stopped to admire a poster for the Gruffalo at Kew Gardens, since my son is obsessed with both the Gruffalo and pointing at plants, but closer inspection revealed its planned end was nine months ago. Did it ever start, I wonder? Does it exist now only in the chipper marketing of the before times, in the long long ago, frozen in amber like the tattered remnants of a dead society?
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