Two people take a walk through the snow.
A wintry walk. Two black Labradors—one seven years old with an arthritic elbow and a grey beard, the other seven months old, lanky, pantheresque, fluid. A psychoanalyst friend of mine—tweed jacket, walking boots, solidly built, open face. Me, in my dad’s old leather jacket, trying to manage the dogs in a bluster of leaves, dishevelled hair and… is that actually a snowflake?
It ought to be odd stomping around talking about Freud, but it’s Hampstead Heath, so most of the huddled couples straining against…
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