'Wouldn't sit on that if I were you.'
'And thank fuck every day that you're not.'
'If it breaks, don't come crying.'
'Wanna test it?'
'Cheers, I'll pass.'
'You're such a little pu—BOLLOCKS!'
'Told you.'
'Fucking shrubs!'
'Looks comfy enough down there.'
'Help me up, will you?!'
'Uff, you're heavy. And you spilled the beer.'
'What's the point of a bloody garden swing if you can't use it?'
'You could fifteen years ago.'
'And now it's just hanging around?'
'Pretty much.'
'Why not fix it?'
'Who? My mum won't even look at that thing.'
'How about you?'
'Two left hands, if you haven't noticed.'
'Why's she avoiding it?'
'Hm?'
'Your mum. The swing.'
'... Think it reminds her of things.'
'…'
'Stop pulling that face.'
'What face?'
'That face.'
'It's just… sad, innit?'
'It's only a swing. Move. My balls are freezing.'
'And we just leave it there?'
'I'll deal with it.'
'…'
'What?'
'Just thinking.'
'Dangerous territory for you.'
'...Fifteen years, mate.'
'Yeah…'
'…You ever visit him?'
'No need.'
'You sure?'
'What the fuck—are you a therapist now?'
'Cool off. I was just asking.'
'Well don't.'
'We could burn it.'
'You crazy?'
'Like those Viking boats. Big flames.'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'… My dad hung it.'
'…'
'…'
'I know what we'll do. Toni's got tie-down cords in his shed.'
'And?'
'We fix it. Seat, ropes. Put it back up proper.'
'…'
'You coming or what?'
'You can’t fix it.'
