Boy On A Bench

A relatively unblemished sunny day. Did some work on computer, mainly selecting and processing over a week of photographs. Eventually, before teatime, I persuaded the wean to come on a walk in the nearby park with Lola. I threw some balls for her while he affixed himself to a bench, complaining of pain in his legs. He has had these before, and the physiotherapist confirmed that they were growing pains (he was premature and has some issues with muscle tone). He's also very much a non-sporty child, as I was myself, sneaking off to read to avoid being rounded up for the long walks my boarding school, Ring College, promoted.

Afterwards I took him to Eason's in Dun Laoghaire because I wanted to get a copy of The New Statesman, in which I have a poem this week. I also wanted to buy him a new book as we're getting to the end of The Boy In The Dress, which was good fun, very Roald Dahl (as the helpful girl at the cash desk remarked). Alas, no new books by David Williams, and he opted for The Secret Seven. Again, this brings me back to my year at that boarding school, because it was there, at the late age of 13, that I eventually realised what a lousy writer Madam Blight-On actually is. But he'll have to figure that one out for himself. We need a bedtime book, and after all the stories themselves (clichéd characterisation, cosy 'social morays', xenophobia etc. aside) are probably readable and pacy, if I recall.