Our local park is like a club that accepts as members only those who have small children, or who are teenagers. There is the occasional older couple walking their dog, or some just-out-of-their-teens lovers lolling on the grass, but usually it's just a mess of prams, tricycles and music blaring from mobile phones.
And mud. This afternoon, just before the park closed for the dark hours, a tiny boy got an evil look on his face and made a mad dash for the only puddle in the park, muttering, 'Mud'. As his father leaped to halt his progress, the slightly older brother, standing with his bike, nodded and said, 'Mud', with a rueful smile. I guess his mudding days are over.
The poet introduced me to the man who took this famous photograph of WH Auden, Stephen Spender, Ted Hughes, TS Eliot and Louis McNeice (in random order). He told us how he scrambled around looking through the negatives when Sylvia Plath became well known (or died?) as she had been at the same event and was hanging around in the background, but found no potentially very lucrative photos of her. Wouldn't knowing the future be a boon in that kind of situation!
