Wooka, wooka, wooka, wooka.
That’s the sound my helicopter made as it rose into the air
above the playground, pitched left towards the grassy embankment and landed
gingerly under the covering of camphor laurels. A small boy had been left
behind in the centre of the concrete clearing, blissful and oblivious to my
departure.
My eldest child is 3-and-a-bit. He can talk well enough to
hold conversations with big kids now. He’s inquisitive enough and carefree
enough to approach other kids in the playground, even if they are bigger than
him and clearly don’t wish to be interrupted by a pipsqueak chiming in on their
game.
