The inside of an egg, snot on my daughter’s fingers as we measure out flour and milk. She will be eight soon. We pick out the bits of broken shell. She rests her finger on the measuring jug, watching it fill until the level reaches the tip of her nail. Stop. While the mixture rests we go to the park to play on the swings. We watch grannies lighting their farts on the seat by the slide and swordfight with sticks. Rain stalks us from above the bowls pavilion. When we get hungry we walk back. Beside the river the beach leaves are the colour of rust.
Back home I toss pancakes, trying not to burn them as I eat. She sprinkles sugar and lemon, spreading it around with a spoon to create art. Rolling them tighter than a cigar she folds them in half so the juice can’t leak.
Afterwards we read a story about a scorpion but I don’t understand many of the words. We sit with our backs to the kitchen radiator. Our feet are tucked up so we don’t have to touch the floor. Outside the rain comes straight down. It is blue like the inside of a shellfish, painting the windowsills and trying to creep inside.