Season of mists…

I’m bleeding.
My daughter’s bored.

But they’re too good to leave, and if I climb up a little bit higher there’s some real juicy ones.

A neighbour walking through the park waves, joins us and I hear behind me.

“Is your lovely Mummy going to do some baking? Make a crumble?”

“She puts them in vodka.” My daughter folds her arms with a knowing pout and a glance at me. “She doesn’t really do baking.”

(I don’t)

“Ooh the more I hear about your Mummy the more I think I like her.” Says the neighbour, her eyes out on stalks.

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