Walking home, listening to Laura Marling’s Wild Once and really feeling it, thinking about a childhood spent damming streams, climbing hills and trees, swinging on self-made rope swings, making dens. Thinking about slipping down scree slopes and scraping knees, shredding skin from my hands, going home with blood dripping from wounds that would later scab that I would later pick and let bleed again. Remembering the delicious, pleasure-pain of scab picking. I see the skeletal frames of roofs under construction and remember the years spent playing in the shells of houses under construction on the old green belt, when there still was a green belt, clattering around in the upstairs, leaping from beam to beam. And I know I am older, and I am weighed down by my responsibilities and the need to set a good example, but I wonder why it would be so terrifying to go home with skinned knees, why I have allowed the fear of injury to outweigh the obvious pleasure of being at home, in glorious possession in my own body.