The local café, Sunday morning. Your correspondent is there when it opens, to write another deathful screed. The local families start to arrive about two hours later.
It’s a young family area. Or at least, it’s a young family café, concrete floors and raw-wood big tables, the requisite two novel items on the breakfast menu among a sea of smashed avo. It is, to a degree, a toughening-up obstacle course for toddlers. There’s nothing like belly-flopping on a concrete floor to really reinforce the concept of object permanence, and every corner of every table could have your "I" out.*