They Scoot Among US

It is fashionable to say that the old gods are all dead. Nowhere, I think, is this less true than in Muswell Hill, where Greek widows congregate in black - without even realising - at the points where all the old lanes meet and even the name of the place is a homage to an ancient shrine. The gods are everywhere.

Even in the Sainsbury's on a Sunday afternoon. There are gods, but there are no baskets. The entire mortal population is in there, chasing a few tiny bits of soggy produce while the floor staff fill up every aisle with the crates of the new stuff. It wouldn't be fair to call it Hell but it's no joy either. And hot. And everyone is aware that slipping away outside are the last few hundred minutes of warm sunshine they will see before a summer of grey clag. And through all of this strides one of those loud uber-Mums that the area specialises in, calling loudly to Jago and Delphie to keep up.
To be fair, Jago and Delphie are finding it hard to keep up

BECAUSE THEY'RE ON BIKES. BOTH OF THEM. PROPER FULL-ON 9 YEAR OLDS' PEDAL BIKES. IN A SHOP THAT PEOPLE CAN BARELY WALK THROUGH.

Be fair, I tell myself. She might not have meant it to turn out that way. We've all been there, or somewhere like it. She might be stuck on her own with the twins, and have just remembered when they were all coming back from the woods - with those enormous clunky bikes that kept on gouging bits out of her shins - that they'd run out of Dairylea Lunchables for tomorrow and then maybe the security guard went all Health and Safety-Human Rights-Company Policy on her about him looking after two kids' bikes and...

She is beautiful, by the way. It's not just the summer dress that seems to float. She does too - a couple of centimetres above the tiled floor of the supermarket, on a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and crisp linen.

'Babes. Did you say we'd got white wine vinegar?'
Nah though. This Momma's not toughing it out on her own. There is a Dad. Baguette under his arm. It's not a Sainsbury's one, of course - this has been purchased previously, in better surroundings, surroundings that no doubt involve an original 1908 shop counter, it is a multi-grain baton lovingly wrapped in artisan brown paper by a bloke who rides a penny farthing to work. And who, I imagine, only has to ride it into work twice a week, if he actually sells enough of his loaves for the price I know he asks for them.

And Dad's dangling a key fob from one finger - he's not showing off that he's got a massive big black tank parked outside. But he is reminding everyone, quietly, that the twins don't need to have their bikes in the supermarket. They could be in the back of the massive car. So could the twins. So he could he. They're doing this because, hey, they can. And of course the security guard didn't say a word to them. Hell, he didn't even see them as they cycled by the bananas. And if anyone checks the CCTV later, you know what? They won't be on it.

'Cass? Vinegar?' He tries her again, but without much conviction. It doesn't matter, after all. He is dressed for a day of yachting around the Med. And the mind of this Dad is not cluttered with, the brow of this Dad shall never be knitted nor sweat-beaded with those downward-spiralling inner fret-hymns that go : Christ it's hot in here Christ why did she say yes the kids could have their bikes in here for f- and it's Monday tomorrow and it's Stefan's appraisal why in the name of when I said it was Stefan's sodding appraisal on Monday which by the way is going to be an absolute f - why then so why have we still somehow got Xandra and Tim coming for dinner on Sunday when it's Monday and it's Stefan's appraisal tomorrow and the pair of them never leave do they no matter how much you try and actually I should get that pair of wasters to do Stefan's appraisal that would shut them up for a but haven't we still got to make a Roman sodding helmet out of papier mache for both of the little bleeders tomorrow yeah so what the hell was her mother doing with them, exactly, all day on.

He is a brilliant, brilliant man. His name is never spoken. And he has never had those thoughts. He never will.

He's quite a stunner himself, I should add. Combinations of silver, snow white, leather brown. And that's just the guy's head. I wonder if they've been picnicking in the woods for the afternoon, or were just doing a catalogue shoot in it.

When it's clear that no word on the vinegar is coming his way, he studies the label on the bottle in his hand for a moment and then he looks up and frowns in the direction of the kids.

'Delphie sweetie maybe just scoot while we're in the store honey, kay? You don't want to have an accident.'

The thing is: Delphie will never have an accident. She may cause them - on her little bike, on bigger ones, with people's hearts and minds - but she, Delphie, she will float past them all, spotless, untouched by the business of mortals, like her Mum and Dad and her brother - riding her bike and flying through the aisles where lesser beings can barely walk, and forever. I told you, see. The gods never went away.