Mulled Vine

It had been a long day, traipsing through the cobbled streets of Venice and watching languid, love filled gondolas float by under our feet. We turned the corner and there it was, a quiet little plaza, in the centre of which tinkled a little fountain sculpture of a smiling cherub. Thankful for the opportunity to rest and the surprising absence of any other tourists we sat down and munched on our cheese sandwiches.

Milly turned to me, her little rosy cheeks bulging with food, and said, “Daddy, is this a wishing fountain?”

I hesitated, unsure whether to be truthful and to disabuse her of her childish notions, that wishing wells, magic, pixies and assorted heavenly beings were imaginings that had no useful bearing on practical reality and human progress.

But then the cherub winked at me … I swear it did, leaving me vaguely stunned … and since to the best of my knowledge I am not insane, I looked down at her and scooping up a little of the crystal clear water, splashed her playfully in the face and said, “It might just be, my love, you never know.”