Sitting on a towel in the shade at the North Melbourne pool, well back from the babble and splash from the big pool, where Boychild and his friend are disporting themselves.
Reading Mansfield Park, inspired by this. (I was going to post on the Holiday Reading thread over there, but my God, so bloody interlecktuwal. That’s their holiday reading? I’m embarrassed to fess up to my fiction and lesser non-fiction reading, deadset. The Coetzee sounds like a good read but.)
For the first time in sixteen years, I can do this without actually watching the children the whole time. I can read whole chapters uninterrupted, except to dispense orange juice. If either of them dies, I guess they’ll put out an announcement on the loudspeaker.