In the popular imagination, writers often have rock’n’roll lifestyles. Me? Not so much. In fact, I have the world’s most mundane weekday routine. Every morning, about 8.25, I wipe congealed oatmeal off my kid’s face and put her in a stroller. Then I put a lead on my dog (a mutt called Rascal) and walk to daycare with them. Then I walk back home with an empty stroller and my dog.
This extremely ordinary routine – or at least the second half of it – seems to puzzle people. Surprisingly often, I have had strangers stop me in the street and ask if the empty stroller is for my dog. “No, it’s for my small child, whom I just dropped at daycare,” I will explain. They will nod along, but look as if they don’t quite believe me. “Oh,” they might say. “I thought it was for the dog.”
