It’s a starry day, twinkly weather with a hot blue sky, a light pleasing breeze. From where we sit in the back of the cab, sun points ping off the cars up ahead, hot metal stacking up at the lights. Heavy rainfall the night before has cleared the air leaving it washed, fragrant. It is almost Spanish, this weather.

The cab driver is an auntie and she wants to talk. That’s fine. I am sure it is because of the good weather that the three of us engage in happy fluid chatter while SmallMonkey quietly reads his book between us. We are all in the best of moods.

When we reach the pitch there is a heat haze coming off the grass and sun cream slides off damp skin. Wind ruffles the sleeves of the ref when he points, and his whistle peeps are sharper, carry further.

Our kids lie around at half time, wet through and panting like dogs on a beach. We pipe water into them and send them back out. The good weather carries its happy luck right through the game, seeps into the little sinews and drives the football the right way down the pitch, gets it out from tricky footknots and bounces it from head to head, toe to toe, arcing through the blue and sliding towards the goal until it pops right in: poc. Sweaty hugs and high fives. A quick dispersal today as the sun is baking through our tops.

At lunch we have piles of fries and a victory ice cream. All through our meal the sky stays blue – I can see it through the mall window, and I notice the hot wind ruffling ferns by the road. We take our time, and when we reach our side of the island the rain has already been and gone because the streets are wet and steamy. We jam open the patio doors in time to hear the thunder slide away across the rooftops. I wish for the hundredth time that I could bottle them, these happy days.