I watch them in their poo, the younger boy complaining about his brother. They remind me of my brother and me at their age. I sympathise with my mother. I understand why she used to walk the dog often at week-ends.
A couple or blackbirds perched on our fence scream at us. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘The tent will go soon. I promise.’ They beat their wings angrily and fly away. I check my phone. It is nearly 8 o’clock, right on time for the blackbirds usual dinner time in our garden. I had not thought of them when I had erected my tent a couple of hours earlier in the middle of their feeding ground.
‘They could have emailed earlier,’ I moan to my partner. ‘And why is the general manager of my department never emailing to provide clarity or just to check in on us.’