Swing Time

by Zadie Smith

She was laughing at my mother—it was liberating. I had never imagined my mother could or should be a figure of fun,

“I’m telling you right now I got no idea where this place is at,” he said, slapping his handlebar with his map. “You get halfway down some tiny little street—Christchurch Close, Hingleberry fucking Corner—and then this thing’s telling me: turn to page 53. Motherfucker, I’m on a bike.”