The Daily Novel

But on the way decided to give my beloved Yamaha 250 cc scooter a trip to the country. In the time available it had to be Hertfordshire. As soon as I got on to the first long stretch on the A41 heading for Holborn I knew it was the right decision. I opened the throttle and the throbbing of the engine echoed through my body, vanishing he lingering depression.

As soon as I cross the Finchley Road I have a vista of the country in front of me. Make a mental note. Must keep an eye on John Prescott in case he tries to abolish it with his zeal for building houses. By the time I get near to Watford the exhiliartion has increased in tune with the rising volume of the voice of the engine.

Turn right into the empty lane leading to Letchmore Heath. I’m here at last. Suddenly the pond is right in front of me, decorated with several new families of geese and their young. Time to smoke my last fag. Sit on the bench and enjoy the long exhalation.

On the other side of the pond a young man in a red anorak is teaching his four-year-old son to ride a bike. I watch him as he holds the saddle while his son gradually increases his speed on the run down to the pond. His wife trots along behind. They repeat the trip two more times and I am waiting for that magic moment when the father removes his hand and the son realises that he can do it on his own.

It does not happen. The father decides that he is not quite ready for it. The bike is stored in the boot of their car parked on the other side of the pond and they start walking towards me, the three of them hand in hand. It is a perfect autumnal day, with the sun shining through wispy clouds and half the leaves on the trees already reddish brown.

When they arrive at my bench the illusion of tranquillity is shattered. The child between them looks happy enough. But the faces of the adults are full of strain and suppressed anger. Have they had a marital tiff? Or are they consumed with the strain of modern living? The man looks much older than he looked in the distance. Perhaps he has to work 16 hours a day in order to pay the mortgage on his house in the country.

They pass me and I spend a little more time drinking in the scene. Time for me to go. As I turn around I see them in the distance walking in the distance across an open field, still hand in hand. The illusion is restored. They look the ideal subjects for a cornflake commercial with appropriate music playing in the background.