There is a lovely little green area near our house where The Child and I like to walk on pleasant days. We play in the grass and listen to birds, we sit on one of the many small bridges to watch the stream trickle by. She shows me rocks that are interesting and I try not to draw attention to the old bongs and Oxycontin canisters left by “naughty” teenagers. All in all, a fairly standard park (we’ve found so many pipes, actually, that I’m starting to hope The Child believes that they grow free range, like psychedelic hand blown glass mushrooms).
At one end of the park is a large and once ornate underpass for the road above. In occasionally artistic graffiti the walls declare who sucks and who sucks. Also, there’s rocks and dust aplenty.