Yesterday, Cath, Cecily and I were missing Dee, so took yet another break from our rubbish attempt at the Ridgeway and went for a local walk.
The light had a soft, hopeful gleam to it. Somewhere George Harrison was singing “Here comes the sun.” Cecily shed one of her numerous pullovers.
Spring had finally arrived.
In the woods were drifts of snowdrops.
And rustling around at the base of a tree, a little vole. We watched it bumbling about.
“I wish the children could see this.”
In reality, none of our children are any longer at the vole-admiring stage. Probably in fact, still sleeping off the night before in their respective digs.
“I miss them.”
“We all do.”
But then we noticed that the vole was limping and blundering about as if dazed.
“Oh dear. I don’t think he’s a well vole.”
We left it in peace (or more probably to some nearby predator), and walked on to the pub.
“Mind you,” said Cath, “If the children had been with us, we wouldn’t have been allowed to leave a sick vole to die of natural causes.”
“No, agreed Cecily, we’d have had to take it home somehow….”
“….and watch it die slowly in the kitchen.”
“You know, I’m not sure I miss the kids so much after all,” I said sipping my lime and soda and leaning back on the sunlit bench.