I’ve just cut the stones out of a load of cherries, for my daughter.  She’s sitting eating them, her chin stained the same blackish-red as my fingers.  She is chatting away through the cherries, happy, making patterns in the juice on her tray.  I’m wondering if this is one of those memories I’m supposed to keep.  In doing so, I’m writing it down here.

I won’t remember this properly.  I’ll try to recall it – the juice on the knife, the feeling of doing something for her, the unabashed way she attacks the fruit – but I think it’ll just be a film memory, a work of fiction pieced together from real life and a thousand images in the media.

Shame. It was fun. And, in doing this, I’ve made it less fun. Object lesson: Don’t do this.

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