Somewhere Between Thrupp and Lypiatt

That time I got lost and realised I should probably stop dicking about in the countryside in my spare time, and also that fog was underused as a metaphor, you’re welcome.

Lonely Stroud

By Emma Kernahan

I decided to walk a different way back from the school.  All the way in the children had been wild with the cold, blowing white breaths along Thrupp Lane and clapping their mittens.  We talked about snow: maybe soon.  The low sky muffled us but we hooted anyway, it was fun.  I had to shout at them to stay in sight, but it was fun.  I wanted a little more of it before returning alone to coffee and central heating.  The house was so stifling.  I was tired.  I wanted to stomp my boots through the frozen mud.

So I climbed straight up the hill, fast until my chest burned.  I thought about the cigarettes I used to smoke, long ago before the kids, and imagined the cold filling each tiny capillary of my lungs like smoke. 

At the top I paused, panting, and looked around.  I…

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