Looking up from their pot noodles, my daughters engage one another in a sudden burst of dinner-table conversation on whether their mother is over the hill.
“Where is the hill?” the younger one asks.
|[the flowers are lasting mightily well this autumn]|
Buoyed by my application of a free sample of face cream that will re-activate my youth and regenerate my radiance, I place the hill firmly and confidently at 90, aeons away from me. “The race is not to the quick, nor the so forth to the so forth,” I tell them, “but it is up that hill.“
In the excitement of the pot noodles moving on to instant jelly, the topic is abandoned. Later, struggling with my entry in the best Lego ninja turbo-destroyer contest, I wonder whether the face cream might have been a placebo, yielding only imagined radiance.
|[experimenting with homemade chocolates]|
I ask Google where the hill is. Google is usually so definite, so helpful: Banjarmasin is the second largest city in Borneo, coconut oil is the answer to climate change, slight backache is a sure sign of smallpox. Information at our fingertips, Power to the People. But Google is not sure.
And so I ask you: where is the hill?