No Fly Tipping

He walked diagonally across the Mistress Lane playing field dragging what looked like a length of dirty tarpaulin.

I thought he was fly-tipping, heading for the bin in the far corner.

Not that anyone uses that bin.

The bin’s only there as a handy marker that this is a good spot to dump old toys, mattresses, broken shelves and superannuated electrical appliances.

It wouldn’t fit in the bin anyhow. Not even if he folded it neatly, which not many fly tippers are in the habit of doing.

The thing looked big enough to wrap up a Transit van.

He stopped about five yards from a heap of discarded doggy bags, turned around, picked up one end of his ragged sheet and moved it toward me. Then he went to the other end and pulled it straight, taking pains to establish a precise angle.

The material may once have been white. It was now streaked and stained the colour of a well worn builder’s mug.

He bent down and pulled a yellow handle from a fold. Then another handle. When he stood up I saw they were connected to a tangle of strings.

As I sauntered by I was going to ask what he was up to. But my question turned into a shrug.

He scowled back.

“Kite,” he said, “Mi ‘obby.”

He flicked a wrist and the dirty brown rag filled with wind, curved tightly, made a sound like a clap of thunder, then soared straight up into the bright clear sky.

The kite gladdened.

For a moment gravity was cancelled.

“Whoaaah!”

He beamed like a boy that had just been given his first balloon.