Ezra wanted to show me where he goes to do 'airsoft' (latest phase, and thorn in our sides) within an abandoned house and outbuildings in a sprawling vine area just outside the town.
I did the statutory 'Oh that's nice, dear' as he described sniping at someone as they emerged from the main house - we are a dead loss, sorry Ezra. Wrong parents for this. Now if he was obsessed with playing the banjo still . . . that would be wonderful.
Hopefully it's just a testosterone-fuelled phase.
Anyway, we did the tour of the mournful place and then set off for a walk up the hill. Scattered around were many other little dwellings: vine tenders' shelters, each with a now-rambling garden, decayed interior and rustic fireplace.
In the last one, I found this flattened and twisted old fork, a thing of strange beauty and remnant of someone's, hopefully happy, existence in the small building.
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