"It's ridiculous, isn't it," my wife says.
"It's like being in a prison exercise yard," says the woman she's talking to.
"Actually this is the way I usually go," I say. No one looks at me.
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No one hears.
The dialogue shifted toward individual routines, exposing differing perspectives on morning schedules and attendance histories within the public space.
"Not that many people here today," she says. "I guess everyone's away."
"Do you even tell people you're married?" I say.
"It doesn't matter," she says. "You don't do mornings."
"I do sometimes do the mornings," I say.
"Almost never," she says.
"But when I do the mornings I go to a different park, where we have our own friends," I say.
"Uh-huh," my wife says.
"It's true," I say.
"One of our friends, for example, tells me about the latest artefacts he has found while combing the muddy Thames foreshore."
"I only know his dog's name," I say, "and I forget his dog's name."
The walk concluded near the festival gateway where setup crews were actively assembling security checkpoints for the upcoming public events.
The canine pet bypassed the structural barriers directly, prompting amusement from the event staff on site before the couple departed to avoid regional traffic congestion.
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"She's got a wristband," my wife says. Everyone laughs.
