Back in the 1990s Clare and myself found ourselves on a windy, overcast hill in the Peak District, learning how to hang-glide. We were dressed in rough jackets and jeans, ideal for running down the cowpat-strewn hill holding on to the ropes attached to the hang-glider's wings. Like stabilizer-wheels on a bike, this was how we stopped hapless students from their first - and possibly last - high-speed flight into terrain.
There were two of our number, bulky, ugly men with high-pitched voices, who had invested in snazzy flying suits. Now, not one in ten of those who take part in a hang-gliding class achieve their licence and then make flying part of their lives (we certainly didn't). It was obvious that our dandy twins had wasted their money and enthusiasm on the colourful inessentials here.
Flushed, as my sister says, with pleasurable endorphins from my first gym session this morning, I am about to pop into town and buy a tracksuit. And those hillside memories ripple back ...
Clare was pleased with the tulips below and asked me to snap them.
