Beware ye boat wives the distance ye moor from the launderette. With the double pushchair and a rucksack I can take two loads of washing (one dark, one light) and there’s still room for the children! St Margaret’s vicarage is also encased in holly. Is this a holy thing? To be hedged in and protected by sacred prickles? As I push the buggy down a leafy country lane, five bedroom family homes with pillar-flanked front doors make way for semi-detached suburbia and trades men’s vans; subcontractors of the construction industry. A warning to the intrepid Boat-Wife, you are now entering Launderette Country.
The ‘get fit’ trainers are now discarded, I am trip-trapping in my red sandals past a golden cropfield of cricket noises – the insect not the ballgame. At the brow of the hill we pass the redbrick Victorian waterworks with the round window.
Back home I use the internet to locate local parks and The Doctor takes baby sister swimming. My daughter and I sample two different playgrounds in the summer sun. She covers one eye.
“Why are you doing that?” I asked.
“I’m winking,” she replied.
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