Intention

Here's to scoring many goals read the inscription, from mum. The ball was run over within the hour, it was still playable but now it had a bulge like a hernia and I sobbed because the inscription held so much hope for me, particularly since I was utterly shite at football.

Today, on realising I left Rowan's Peter Rabbit cutlery somewhere in the Poconos, I could barely get off the couch and honestly if Alice wasn't round I would have sobbed again. The cutlery was from my ancient godfather, Michael, who's been terminally ill for years, he still meets my mum at the gardening centre for tea and he unintentionally delivered perhaps my favourite moment of the pandemic when he got locked out of his email account and could only communicate through Jackie Lawson e-cards.

Imagine it, a flash animation of a cat causing havoc with the wrapping paper or a dog sliding on its arse 

down a snow bank and a panicked message at the end from a 95 year old man and yes this is exactly how

I want to misapprehend the future. How satisfying.

Stephen, who accidentally kicked the ball into traffic, gave me the exact same ball a week later, but it just

couldn't fill a hole that had opened up in me which I later discovered, to my complete surprise, I had 

stuffed with Beatrix Potter flatware.