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Throwing rocks at shop signs

When I was a kid I used to love Asterix, it was like my thing. We would go round lane corners yelling beep dropping poo sticks off bridges, high fiving soft wood trees, quartering our ankles in ice streams.

The dirt was all cake. The old suitcase we found by the lake, the spider plants bought from church yards, the cress grown on egg cups sills, the red bucket in conversation with waves, meant there was no dark in the woods, the animals all liked us.

We didn’t know yet about charts, or how to tell good stories or care about who liked us.

We ate days like packed lunches blew seed umbrellas into battle ditches like those pictures of the wind with chubby cheeks.