February 1

It has been trying to snow all day. The rushing clouds have spat down swirls of white blobs that whirl around for a few minutes and then flutter away. A cutting wind cries out, snow, snow, snow but it does not come.

In Café Nero, a five year old boy points up to a speckled rooftop opposite where a blizzard of grey-white pigeons are taking off.

‘They’re going Mum.’

‘Hmm.’

She’s consumed by her mobile phone, rapid fingers taping out a text message.

‘The pigeons. Look! Where are they going to?’

‘Eat your muffin.’

The pigeons whirl around in snowy confusion and then flutter away. I want to answer the boy’s question. I want to make up an adventure for the pigeons; I want to fly with them and him.