I spent last weekend with my son.
On Saturday, we spent our day cycling the trails of Sheffield. We grimaced our way up many hills and scooted our way back down, mostly at a fair lick, smiling all the time.
Lunch was simple. Nothing more than a small handful of olives and feta cheese, plucked from the plastic container with wooden chip shop forks that had been lurking in the nether regions of my windcheater for longer than I care to admit.
Feasting in the fresh air is a tonic in itself, but mid-ride it can sometimes be a wonderfully indulgent affair. I think I was born to picnic. Fresh air improves the flavour of food. Fact.
Saturday afternoon was spent relaxing and generally idling, whilst the prospect of a curry for tea kept us smiling. Not just any old curry though. The world’s best lamb madras no less. Takeaways are a very rare treat for us, but on the once-in-a-blue-moon occasions that it is possible, having Akhtars in Killamarsh nearby is a godsend. Purveyors of spicy/aromatic lamb madras perfection.
Sunday saw an early start. We had an easy pedal across town to visit my sister and were treated to baked Camembert and crusty bread. The weird aroma of the famously stinky cheese being easily offset by the divine taste.
It was in this post-cheese-moment-of-magic, that I reflected on a few home truths. The first thing that ambled into my seldom still mind, was the realisation that my son is now as tall as me. A solid looking six-footer. He’s just turned 14 and he’s caught me up. I seriously doubt that he’s done growing. In truth, he’s only just getting started. Another month should see him take ‘the title’ proper.
I will, of course, abdicate my title with good grace.
I have always enjoyed being the tallest member of my famously short-legged family, but being six feet tall simply doesn’t cut the mustard any more…
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