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then getting married. I pat Roan on the head like he’s the rescue dog, and he shines back at me. Those teachers’ hearts must fill with fucking joy when they see him coming. God polished him before he came out. Polished till he saw his own face in him.
    â€œYou coming?” Fair play to Jonah’s grandmother, she does try to include me in the geriatric small talk of the playground, especially since Maggie got her brain tumour; but I draw the line with a full stop at an octogenarian zumba class.
    â€œWe’re off to the library,” I explain. “Bounce and Rhyme.”
    Rhys’ grandad limps over on his zebra stick. How he keeps up with that little fucker Rhys, God only knows. He’s a bit of an old perv, Rhys’ grandad, but he’s nice enough. He’s got the oddest way of licking his lips when he speaks, which Dove invariably tries to imitate. The effect is beyond rude.
    â€œYou won’t know what to do with yourself when the – lick lick – littlun goes to school.”
    Dove lick licks back at him, her eyes as innocent as china-blue plates.
    â€œI’m sure I’ll think of something.” Like having a shit in peace, having a cup of tea in peace, thinking for a microsecond in peace without a child chirruping in my ear like friggin’ Tweety Pie.
    We trudge down the hill at a snail-in-its-shell pace because everything in the world is a mystery to Dove: the worm on the pavement, a lemonade can, some crazy old lava lamp in a window, a lion door knocker. I put on my breathless excitable voice as if I’m seeing the objects for the first time too. Drew thinks it’s weird, but it comes natural to me. To be honest, everything with kids came natural to me. I had perfect pregnancies, perfect births. I didn’t even get a single stretch mark. My friends have stomachs that look like road maps left out in the rain and they want to know my secret. Well, here it is, The Six Million Dollar Man top tip – pumpkin seeds. Eat a handful every day and you won’t get stretch marks. As for the birth – keep active. Scream, shout, kick your partner in the goolies, push like you’re doing a crap. Job done.
    The library’s bustling with old folks, all after the latest large print erotic thriller by the look of it. God almighty. How soon we grow old yet we don’t really change. Still gagging for it, still looking at ourselves in the mirror. Our lives are like fish that slip through our own nets. We never seem to catch them. We sit by the river waiting for them to jump out at us. In the end all we get is an old boot, a clump of weeds. Oh to be wise and mature, having lived a life full of meaning, without regrets.
    â€œShall we start with ‘Twinkle Twinkle’?” the librarian asks.
    Why not, we always do. The grandparents start to croak. I start to croak. A young mum – I try to check my excitement – starts to sing. Actually sing. I look at her with suspicion. This can’t be right. She can’t be a full-time mum after all. She must be on maternity leave. Knowing it will all end soon she’s loving every minute of it. Look at those hand gestures to “The Wheels on the Bus”. Those aren’t the hand gestures of a full-time mum, I can tell you. They’re far too vigorous. My heart goes down on me like a dirty old man would if I let him – fast, rough, slobbering. My suspicions are confirmed when we stop for a tea break and she asks for a cup of hot water, no biscuit. Gracie’s grandad and I exchange a look of pure bafflement. What kind of creation is this? He’s bereft even of gardening tips. We’ve been up since the bum crack of dawn. We accept anything we’re offered – antiseptic throat lozenge, chewing gum, cream cracker. Say the words ‘chicken casserole with dumplings’ and a full-time parent’s liable to wet themselves.
    â€œIs that some new trend?” Sydney’s