Is that…fresh air?! 20.02.
Growing up, weekends would often consist of my mum somehow throwing together a batch of scones before I had even, bleary-eyed and bushy haired, dragged myself downstairs, bundling them (and myself, and occasionally my sister) into the back of the car…and heading out for a walk in the countryside.
There was tea in a thermos (sans sugar, which involved a lot of grimacing on my part), there was a tartan blanket, there was an occasional surplus of mud. There were streams to leap, there were stones to skim, there were things to climb, there were cute dogs running around that I would never own.
And there was fresh air.
Plenty of fresh air.
London, however, not so much.
And so, on the most beautiful blue-skyed Saturday of the month, armed only with a half-demolished packet of Mini Eggs and a flimsy pair of sneakers, Sam and I made the trek to Richmond Park.
I’m quite certain I heard my lungs actually squeal with relief.
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