Your accent struck me as Glasgow softened by a proper education. Fit, brown hair, six two and change, you commanded those six-year-olds with the most charming sense of fun.

“Fishy-fishy-fishy come and play in our sea. Sharky-sharky-sharky, you can’t catch me!” How did you lead them and never patronize, encourage without sing-song? You had the touch, the reflexes to hold them in your thrall without ever revealing the extent of your power. I’m like that, too, in the classroom. It takes nerve, concentration, and a kind of love.

I rather fancy that pirate ship game: “Climb the ropes! Spyglasses out! Climb back down! Captain on deck!” See, that’s where it could get interesting, if a stowaway were discovered. Too young for the Cat, you’d have to find other methods of correction, and instruction.

Or maybe something closer to home: you a gifted Captain of Games, me a weedy 4th former who’s never played proper football. You’d make me love it, and never let me slack – somehow.

So few people know how to play, from instinct, with generosity and conviction. So few people are a natural, with a crowd of kids, or a recalcitrant project. Don’t go back to Scotland yet. Let me make you pizza while you play with my dogs. Let’s see what other games eventuate.

Check out other missed connections this week:

• PapaTomLA
• Frenchies

From the slope above the tow-path, she watched as he dragged himself to the boathouse at dawn and every afternoon at four. She’d gone initially to watch him, but now she set her alarm as much to see the one who met him there. This other boy’s name she knew; everyone knew it – James. He’d been star of their rowing team until he left to row for Oxford. Now he rowed beside Andrew, his muscles flexing beneath the singlet he wore, held together at the shoulder with a safety pin. Through the binos she could see the scar on his forearm. There’d been a motor accident in his Upper Sixth year. He’d been dragged three hundred yards along the M25. He was lucky, they said.

She killed the mosquito on her cheek and trained the binos down into the boathouse. The sun cast long shadows through the windows. The path was clear, the evening still; their voices carried up the slope. He was berating Andrew now, as he often did, for his lack of effort. Andrew’s father hadn’t hired him to waste time, but to train Andrew up. Andrew shuffled and bent reluctantly over the scull. James held the back of his neck and raised a slipper. She watched.

Read other folks writing this week:

• Travis
• Frenchie
• PapaTomLA
• Rafi