A friend’s nearly-five-year-old demanded to wrestle me, announcing that she was very strong. She was. Defeated, I balanced her upside down from my feet as I lay on the floor and she extended her legs up to the ceiling, and it was inelegantly yogic. Her mother, temporarily disarmed by a feverish younger sibling, pointed out that sock wrestling would be a good community winter sport, and advocated for a weekend wrestling meetup, and I’m pretty sure she’s onto something.
We walked over the side of Cusop Hill afterwards and passed the vast old yew tree by the church that can (we’ve tried) accommodate seven children with ease. The snowdrops are out by the roadside and the crab-apple bush above the kitchen window is insistent that now is a sensible time to blossom. The first tentative dark pink buds are out.