The danger with blogging, at least the way I do it, is that the blog can become a place to be unhappy.  To bemoan the state of the political nation.  Or to mark mournful anniversaries.  We forget to celebrate what we have, to cherish the small moments.  One thing I love is walking my boy Giorgie to school.  So here I am, celebrating and cherishing, in what may become a School Run series.

4.  It just is

Breakfast laughs provided today by a brilliant birthday present from my sister Gioia: a book of Van Morrison lyrics.

I had wondered how the book would cope with the endless repetition in some of my favourite songs, like Summertime in England.  And the answer is: with endless repetition.  Line after slavish line of “It ain’t why, why, why, why, why, why, why….”

If all of our music were lost in some nuclear holocaust, we agreed, and Martians, or future archaeologists, found only this text, they would be baffled.  What are its hidden meanings?   Why this many “whys” on this line, and that many “whys” on that line?  Why!?  Why!?  Why!?

So the school run today consisted mostly in setting our walk to the tune of Coney Island, a spoken song so apparently slight as to be almost about nothing.  Just going along.  Just like us.

And who knew?  With my remarkably authentic Northern Irish accent, our little journey could be surprisingly poetic.

Coming down from Carson
Opposite the parade
Slipping left into the estate
And the no cops was good.

Turning right at Heron Court
In the grey Dulwich morning
Coat buttoned against the cold
Because the zip’s no good.

On and on through the bird-named blocks
Falcon and Dunnock
Twisting through parked cars
My boy’s shining face
Heading for school.

When I thought of Van’s last line of Coney Island – Wouldn’t it be great if it could be like this all the time? – I thought, yes.  This would do.  This would be enough.  Me and Giorge.  This urban walk of cars and cut-throughs and grey, susceptible, with a little assistance from Van Morrison, to poetry.  To meaning.  To eternity.

I felt Giorgie squeeze my hand, as if he too, wanted all moments to be like this.

Dad, you will never develop that Northern Irish accent.

I’ll never develop it?

Never.

Why?  Because it’s already so good?

Er, no Dad.

Why?  Why?  Why?