119. Two kinds of heaven

when I was a kid November was cold and sometimes, on a Sunday morning, dad would wake us early and we’d leave my mum asleep in bed and tiptoe excitedly out the house pulling on gloves & scarves in those empty quiet hours & foggy-breathed tramp up the frosty mud-hard trails for a couple of hours between the hedgerows & see who could jump on the frozen crackling puddles first; – up to the duckpond, to feed the ducks then wend our way back home before eight or eight thirty to eggs & bacon sizzling in the pan & bread & butter on the table and mum in her slippers waiting for us.