I attend The Boy's sports day. He is to race the three-legged race (they won, with his larger sidekick practically carrying him over the line - messy, but victorious) and the bean-bag race (a creditable finish somewhere in the middle).
At some distance from us, Emma spies the egg-and-spoon racers lining up.
And they are off.
They totter and teeter and wibble and wobble towards us.
Absent-mindedly, I gaze around, as many about me squeal and applaud in support.
Emma: Those eggs don't look even.
Shane: There'll be fallers.
Emma: No. I mean the actual eggs. They're not egg-shaped.
Intrigued, I look, and focus in, and all becomes clear.
Shane: That's because they're not eggs.
The racers get ever nearer.
Emma: They're potatos.
Shane: Potatos, they are. And the girl in yellow seems to be suffering from a particularly knobbly potato.
Emma: Stewards enquiry?
Shane: (momentary ponder) Not at all. This is education. It's all about how they deal with the uneven playing field.
Emma: (sighs) Profound.
And I am gone - remembering walking up Snowdon with my favourite spoon.
A potato bobbles towards my feet, a child in green feverishly following it, snatching it back and pressing on for the line.
My revery is mashed.