Miles is puttering around, hammering random objects and singing "Bob the Builder" to himself. It's somehow very sweet.
A low rumbling on the street interrupts him. I hear a rush of small feet on the way to the window. (Is he a single child or a fleet of them? Hard to tell without a visual.)
"BYE, TRASHMAN! See ya' next time! Thanks for coming!"
Ah, these moments of domestic bliss. They're the "ob-la-di's" that lift me above the everyday blahs.
Even now I'm humming as I type: "Desmond has a barrow in the marketplace...."
Just a girl, asking for grace, to survive her happily-ever-after.
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