We went, recently, away with friends. Skiing had been on the agenda but a spell of the most beautiful un-New-York-in-March type weather meant that the region was in an unusual state of suspended animation - the ski runs were closed but the summer attractions had yet to open. The gloriously high temperatures were sending visitors like us off in search of ice-cream only to find the Closed 'til April signs still propped in windows, coated with winter dust. A day trip was planned. Saratoga Springs - quite splendid! We had been in the car for a good fifteen minutes when the inevitable happened: "Are we nearly there yet?"
I replied in my best patient Mum voice, "Look at the houses, I would guess that we're right on the edge of town, wouldn't you?"
"What does 'on the edge of town' mean?"
Striving really hard for patience this time, "Well, what do you think it means?"
A moment's pause, then from under lowered lashes in a tone that suggests he knew oh! so much better: "That we're going to fall off."
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