Bit of this

3 sleek jets hug the terrain and disappear over the hill their sound rumbling behind like an after thought. Dangerous and deadly thinks I.

He is about 10, and has lined up dinky cars in his yard, oblivious to the drizzle and still in his school uniform. It's is ages since I have seen an older primary school child down in the dirt playing cars. I send a silent plea to who ever is listening. Oh please let me be given the gift of playing granny.

She reads my mind and rings. I fail to spot her in amongst hustle and bustle of the fair. I have a marvelous time and a marvelous headache. But only "sort of 6" reasonable photos.

I collect and relish encounters, the latest was an elderly gent in the Library, who had a passion for old showman engines. And actually made models of them in his shed. He regaled me with stories from the past. In particular about a fair that fetched up in Oxford the day the second world war broke out. It didn't set up camp and trundled off somewhere else.

I call around to see the boy and am delighted to find that the other mummy and daddy there, whom I have never met and whom I like instantly. But I was heartened to spot a book, and find out that he reads. So it was worth the effort and trauma of teaching him to read after all. The self restraint needed when he stuck his fingers in his ears, whenever I picked up bloody Billy Blue hat his reading book, and be encouraging was toxic to my mental health.

She is alight with joy and enthusiasm as they line buckets up to catch the over flow pouring from the gutter. She stands under letting it drip on her head. Latter I find out that her mother probably won't be amused. But I am not repentant as I send her home in school clothes as hers are drenched. How could I not don my water proofs and let those who wanted it experience the rain. Her face sparkles in my memory.

Bit of that

Show mans engines

and

Landscape of childhood