Tomorrow I have a choice. I can either go to Silverstone and watch classic cars 'qualifying' with Mr Husband and Pest n.1 and 2, or refuse and send just Pest n.1 to enjoy the sounds and the smells of adrenaline racing.
That leaves me with Pest n.2, who is delightfully easy-going and eager to drink and eat life in great big chunks. I should learn from him.
Silverstone has its charm, of course. As a car nut, I know I will feel naturally at home there. I also know that Mr Vroom will be there with his 'xxxxx xxx' and hope to get a good position. Pun not intended. I could drape myself all over the bonnet of his sportscar and whisper seductively 'take me now, Big Boy.' That leaves the small but significant detail of Mr Husband and children looking on, of course.
Or... I could go and spend some time in a place which will make me feel whole again, in an achingly deeper way. A place full of cathedrals of hope and beauty, marvels and history.
If I took the train with my younger son, carrying our roller-skates in my capacious bag, we could choose a park, any park; there, we would put them on our feet like a modern Hermes, and travel on air and laughter.
Wheeled feet or mechanical wheels? London's smog or old engines' fumes? A trip inwards or one outwards?
I don't know what to do.
2008-07-24 @ 11:49