perhaps i shall bounce up to a. a. milne and request permission to write a book of poems entitled when we were eighteen and pretended that we were six. it would rhythmically relate the joy of riding the kennywood swings barefoot three times in a row, flapping one’s arms and kicking one’s feet, face alight with the ecstasy of flying. it would also include a breathless description of the organ-displacing qualities of the exterminator, which had us shrieking at every split-second turn and hurtling into the air and across the seats, even when we rode it again and knew what was coming. finally, it would conclude with an ode to nocturnal rollercoaster riding, which is currently one of my favourite pastimes. imagine gradually climbing a steep track, the speed so slow and the hill so long you think you’ll never reach the top. now lean your head back and look at the stars, twinkling so far above the pulsating lights of the park below. look and look and look, breathing in the sweet night air and wishing for josh groban to suddenly start singing something, and once again pretend you’re six and as the rollercoaster hesitates at the hardwon summit, open your eyes as wide as huge striped lollipops, throw your hands in the air, and go.

there would, i’m delighted to say, have to be an epilogue to this volume of poetry, describing the bliss of riding the kennywood swings barefoot three times in a row again at night. oh, who wants to be six with me? if it rains this week, we’re going puddlejumping!