The Trees Arrive

My daughter and I are painting when the knock comes. Inka is two years old, and learning to splodge spots and stripes onto the paper. I am trying to paint a picture of a troll, in fluorescent colours with a brush thicker than my thumb. I get up and hurry to the door and it’s a courier, dressed like he’s in the military (why do delivery companies costume all their staff like bomb disposal experts?). After signing for the package he hands me, I return to Inka feeling strangely nervous. This all...