(More than) a touch of frost
Not quite ready to confront things which needed to be confronted – dismantling decorations, the impending return to what passes for gainful employment – we decided to keep our heads buried in sand for just a little longer by taking to the lanes, fields and woods within easy reach of home. And, having got out, stayed out for more time than we really had available; willing conspirators needing no coercion.
These frosts have been like the frosts of mis-spent adolescence; the ones which turned Sunday league pitches to corrugated concrete, and the concept of playing football in gloves was considered dubious even for goalkeepers.
Blue skies. Watery sun, surprisingly warming. Boot-prints temporarily fossilised; some so clearly defined that even the lozenge shaped indentation bearing the word ‘Vibram’ was easily distinguishable.
In the end it was hunger, rather than any new-found sense of responsibility, which prompted us to turn for home.