Two nephews, one niece

We sailed the kids up through the drab bleached cut-price neon wholesale-only sweatshop fashion highway into a deserted shopping arcade, wandering past the beautiful brown Shadwell people in swathes of pink and orange and turquoise and black, with ninja eye slits and mobile phones and big trainers. We bounced above the glinting docks on a red and blue train with no driver, spotting yachts and swans and a giant inflatable octopus and bubbles in the afternoon light over a floating rectangle of sand. We showed them the massive masted last surviving tea clipper in the whole wide world, soundtracked by a bandannered busker playing a didgeridoo. They walked along a tunnel under the Thames and back. We stood at the argent shining base of Canary Wharf and snapped our necks back to try to make size sense of the multistacked floors and vast repeating patterns of windows. The sun baked and brightened east London and we ate spiced chicken and walked home through the park to wrap up in blankets in the garden and make shadow puppets from the street light.

Their lasting memory of the day is of a dead dog washed up with the plastic water bottles on a beach out at Greenwich. The rotting black and fly-punctured furless streamlined cantering carcass of an indefinable breed, pulsating with stink and murky wet whispers of a vile unnatural death.

“Not something you see everyday!” said Jack, aged 9.

He told his Mum about it and also, later, confessed to having accidentally used “the f word” on her answerphone. So I am wondering if they’ll be allowed to come again? I let them have jelly (American jello) for breakfast. What can I say? It was a one time offer. I figured they are only reckless little kids for a tiny while.