I watch him from my annex. He scoots over white speed humps and the painted number eight.
Red Spiderman boardshorts, twisted to the side, caught up in his bottom. Red surfing top. Cute little face, wide eyes, pale gangly legs.
Scooter’s probably a Christmas present. Must be around six or seven. It’s hard to tell with some of these kids.
He can’t see me, and scrapes past the front of my caravan.
He has an intellectual delay; when he builds up speed to get over a hump he can’t choose which leg to use.
I loosen my belt.
And I wait.