'Dotta Bridge!' cries Oli, pointing to the Golden Gate Bridge as we turn left along the Marina. Sometimes he yells it in the middle of city traffic and I glance around to see its vanishing image on a passing bus or an impression of it high up among the electric bus cables, on a banner persuading us to visit the National Parks. I wonder how deeply the image of the bridge will be embedded in Oli's mind - the tall red ladders slung low with delicate matching string. There are so many representations of it around the city - it's on a mural at the supermarket, in shop windows and on logos everywhere.
Speaking slowly, Max tells him 'It's the Golden Gate Bridge!' He has all the authority of someone who is going to be five.
Luckily Oli hasn't taken on board this correction yet. It's Dotta be Dotta Bridge, for now at least.
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