Jo Watson


Whenever I pick up my pen to write, I think about all the weird and wonderful words our children will want to share, both now and in the future, about their worlds growing up in a time that will be written about in history books, forever.

They’ll share stories about a world where life was lived indoors, and where people on the outside wore masks, stayed distant, and never, ever touched. They’ll paint word pictures about the rainbows shining in the windows of every house in the street, and talk with both fondness and sadness about schools that closed their doors, seemingly, for all time.

They’ll write pages documenting the confusing and curious tales to tell, about the fun they made for themselves, and the characters that life revealed to them; all the while watching friends and families only on the screens they had often been scolded about for ‘using too much’.

They’ll reflect on the clapping, the zooming, and the endless queuing, and if they’re one of the lucky ones, they’ll wax lyrically about the summer spent splashing in paddling pools, and the winter walks spent whooshing through the snow.

Some kids lived the life, others watched and hoped, others sat and struggled.

It’ll be a world where our children’s real and imagined stories, their tales of woe and wonder, and their books filled with the most magnificent monologues they’ll pass to their children’s children, will be regarded unworthily…

Because they didn’t show evidence, of fronted adverbials.

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