Page, Arizona.
The day was good. Not “all right”, not “bearable” — good. My wife and I got on from the morning, which, travelling with three children and one car, is not the default state but an achievement. We talked. We laughed. For most of the day it was simply pleasant, ordinarily so, without effort.
And then one thing happened. It does not matter what. It genuinely does not matter — and that is exactly the subject of this piece.
Because in the evening I sat there in a ruined mood, looking at the whole day in dark colours. Twelve good
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