’Flower market? You’ve got the wrong place, love’

IT’S 12pm, midnight — and I’m galloping across Highbury Fields with my son towards the tube station, late for the last train because my son mislaid his wallet.

I’m concentrating my efforts on keeping my footing in the dark but at the same time — what with the wallet fandango — trying to remember the words of a quote; “something about the sins of the fathers,” I think [pant, pant] “being visited upon their sons.”

My son gallops beside me, holding his bike.