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Precocious

Walking through tube stations this Sunday afternoon, I came upon a family making their way home from the London Marathon. The two young girls must have been four or five or six years old (probably about waist height, for those who can tell these things), both wearing pink cowboy hats fringed with white feathers.

“Mum!”

“MUM!”

“Muuuuuuummm!”

“Yes?” the tired mother (still with Marathon running number attached to her t-shirt) turned, holding the handles of the pram she lugged up the stairs.

“I’ve just seen a celebrity!”

My best friend turned to me and whispered, “And that’s what’s wrong with London.”

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