Fresh cut hair flares rakishly. Sweet stodge of bread and honey behind a fine smile. Sky full of giant cloud poodles. No rain, only heat falls. Physics says hot air rises, of course, but I am sure it is hotter lying here than it would be riding on one of those broad backed clouds.
All the fire exits are open for evening air. Boy and I are in the third hour of hall space rented from the Okehampton Table Tennis Club. I have opened my coffee flask while he commands the warm-up and I say to the parents assembled: 'It's lovely, having an assistant.'
Under rain, the hall roof is a drum skin. Lights dim and flick. Under thunder we must mime: this kick, this block: to a line of faces: avid, awed, timid. The hall roof is played like timpani.
I have always loved a storm and shut the doors reluctantly. I am glad to hear the bellow of it. Feels a long time in the making, comes with such clearance.
'Are we safe?' Asks Harry, in the lull.
'Don't touch anything metal.'
His eyebrows show concern.
My smirk says not to worry.
His smirk says he thinks his Instructor has a quirky sense of humour, and something about this brings reassurance. His eyebrows settle.
Before I shut down the lights in the ladies' bathroom, I look in the mirror. Even scrunched up for work, the fresh cut hair has a raffish confidence.