Feeling a tickled shade of rose pink – I wrote this poem and tried desperately hard to enter the competition online, whilst travelling in the Pacific North West earlier this year. Numerous attempts to upload my efforts on my mobile phone failed ( unsurprising, as I was on the move in Nevada and Arizona and wi – fi was often compromised ) the deadline came and went and I gave up, thinking it probably would not be good enough anyway.
A few weeks after my return to the UK I received an email, telling me there was still time to send in my entry. Still thinking it was not a great effort but that I would give it a go anyway, having spent time trying to enter, I sent off my writing.
I have just heard that , whist not being shortlisted, it was Highly Commended. Out of 1,500 entries and with the judge being the brilliant Roger McGough, needless to say I am quite chuffed!
The Onion Pickers.
Cycling past onion fields on a June
afternoon, I concentrate, wobbling in
tractor ruts, steering wildly.
He calls "Smell those onions !"
I momentarily fight to stay in the
saddle- bumped, juddering.
Across the red earth they catch my eye,
neon hunchbacks crossing the
furrows, forty or more.
The sweet - sour onion smell hangs
heavy in the air,
We dismount, staring at the workers
spread over the distant acres.
Going about their task, voices call out,
conversations carried on air.
We, in holiday mood, stop to consider
them painfully progressing along the
furrows.
Later, cycling back past the onion fields
we see the neon ants, no respite yet.
Their lemon hi - viz shine in the late
afternoon sun. I, red - faced in the
warm glow of exercise, wearing hi - viz,
pedal painfully.
White onions row on row, brown paper
skins, no aroma.
Supermarket staples - a split second
flashback to the onion pickers.
Two young children are watching “The Wooden Tops ” on a black and white screen. They sit on a chintz sofa in the lounge of the Officers Mess. Suitcases on the floor, teddies on their laps. A uniformed attendant calls out their names from a list on a clipboard and off they go. Bundled into heavy grey duffle coats, they struggle across the tarmac through driving drizzle, climbing the metal steps onto the waiting Comet A.
Somewhere over Spain a member of the flight crew beckons them into the cockpit and they gaze in awe at the array of switches, buttons and levers. The pilot explains what is happening. The older child, a freckle – faced boy, listens agog with excitement at seeing the intricacies of the machine there in front of him. The girl hugs her teddy close.
The Comet lands – noisily but it’s a perfect landing on the airstrip. Mum takes her shiny compact out of her neat leather handbag , powders her nose and applies lipstick, bright red and glossy. The aircraft doors open and a blast of warm air hits the trio,Mum in her sheepskin jacket, children in their winter woollies.Wiltshire had been cold and wet but warmer than Manchester,where they had been living temporarily and much warmer than R.A.F. Kinloss.
They blink, unaccustomed to the bright sunshine. Looking wildly around for any sign of him, Mum waves frantically, gathers herself and clutches their hands as they descend onto the tarmac.
He is in uniform, looks the same, smells the same, but the children dance around him, hardly daring to believe it’s real. He ushers them to the waiting car, proud and happy to see them all. A brand new, white Vauxhall Viva stands ready for them. Registration GRL 993.
Adventure awaits and for the next three years this little bean – can will take them the length and breadth of Morocco- Casablanca, Meknes, Fez, Marakkech and down to the Atlas Mountains, later through Southern Spain, Portugal and at the end of the posting it will carry them heroically the length of Spain and France on their return journey to England.
May 2023 London Gatwick,North Terminal.
Five in the morning. The North Terminal is busy and after the buzz of going through security everyone is intent on phones and laptops. The seating areas are almost full, no – one will be giving theirs up until they have to. Bags and cases are spread out, territoriality. No – one carries luggage any more, wheels make each journey a breeze. Electric vehicles bleep in the background, so for some there is no need to walk either. The airport is a temple to consumerism, although the papers and glossy magazines are free. I grab a copy of the ” New York Times ” and read about the former mayor of Bend in Oregon, who died recently following the amputation of his frostbite legs as a result of homelessness, after suffering mental illness and eviction. It is one of the saddest stories I have read recently, in a world full of them. The American dream becomes a nightmare. When I visit my daughter in Oregon again I shall think of him.
The flight is on time, trouble-free and I even get a window seat thanks to another passenger’s kindness. I take a hundred photos of the approach to Gibraltar but alas, I am sitting on the wrong side of the ‘plane as we approach from the west and anyway, the Levante sits on top of the Rock as it is wont to do.
My companion of forty – five years grins at my excitement at returning for the first time since 1967. He knows my expression and has seen it on our travels : feeding a baby elephant in Thailand, in the wind at the northernmost tip of Scotland, riding a motorbike in Greece – for this trip is not just about getting a little bit of sun or time away, it is a return to my childhood and I come armed with a thousand memories burned into my heart and soul, memories that are as fresh and real to me as they ever were.
We have our passports glanced at by border control, head through customs and out into the warmth of a summer day. It is cloudy but this promises to lift. At this time of year the cloud burns up quickly.
Out of the airport building we follow the crowd of pedestrians towards the crossing. The R.A.F. control tower is still there, dwarfed by the modern airport buildings and now occupied by H.M.customs. The barriers lift and people spill out onto the airfield, a hundred bikes, motorbikes and e- scooters in sight. Long gone are the carts, horses and donkeys making their way over from Spain to sell fresh fruit, vegetables, rabbits and chickens at the daily market in Casemates.
The control tower is still there.
Gibraltar is the same but different. I snap a thousand pictures of the Rock, the airfield and sea in the distance, ignoring the ” No Stopping – this is a live airfield ” signs and take pictures of the military buildings, mentally daring the uniforms to come out and challenge a woman of mature years who is intent on reliving her childhood. They are sharing stuff on their phones and barely glance at us. It is Coronation week and I could be a threat.
Over the airfield and into the outskirts of the town, I note the traffic and how busy it is. Crossing the road needs serious concentration and we dutifully wait for the green man. We take the oldest entrance into the main town. Straight away I recognise Casemates, the old market place, now full of bars, cafes and restaurants. The bunting is out and the Coronation celebrations are revving up.
We walk the length of Main Street, all “Full English Breakfast ” and fish and chips and locate our hotel, which is the oldest in Gibraltar. Who wants a trip into the past to start at a Holiday Inn, for goodness’ sake ? It has a faded grandeur and is somewhat gloomy, but is perfect as a base.
For the next few days we explore the town and see the sights. I have a list of places to check out. I remember all my addresses- I think I memorised them in case I ever got separated from my parents.
The first two are easy to find, near Main Street. Accommodation is at a premium here and service personnel were advised not to bring their families out to join them until they had suitable housing. Instructions were given to R.A.F. staff in a type-written booklet, which also stated: “Private accommodation is not up to UK standards and flats are rarely equipped to the scale we would expect.”
My family lived for a while in a block just off Main Street, now an air bnb. The second, much larger flat in Trafalgar House is two minutes’ walk away and has a large bar underneath. The barman confirms what I knew of the block. The owner started building in 1955. As he was something of a smuggler and gambler, funds were erratic and he built each new floor only when his luck was in. Looking up I could see a line of washing flapping on the roof. My mother would carry the weekly wash up onto the roof and peg out the laundry, whilst my brother and I played amongst the rusty nails and concrete rubble, taking care not to go near the unwalled edge.
The school we attended is now a casino. I spent days at the Garrison Library, limited by my mother to one book a day from the children’s shelves. It is still there, an oasis of calm just off the tourist strip. One can visit free of charge and whilst no longer a lending library, the rooms and gardens are beautiful. My childhood visits to this very special library are imprinted indelibly on my memory and seeing it again a joy.
Garrison Library 2023
As children, we walked to school unaccompanied, played out amidst the rubble of nearby building sites and had a freedom lamentably unknown today. There were regular ‘wars’ between service children and locals – the ” bakery boys” – usually involving shouting and throwing stones, before dashing for cover down the numerous alleys and side streets.
The top of the Rock is now all ‘ pay to enter’ . Years ago,we climbed the steep steps and wandered around freely. Now the apes are in a nature reserve. Having been bitten as a little girl, I was happy to have the very briefest of encounters this time. The apes sit in wait, ready to mug the tourists spilling off the cable car.
Our third and last flat was an upgrade, in Four Quarters, across the airfield on West Beach. At the time it was occupied by Officer’s families. I presumed it had been redeveloped but as it’s still owned by the MO.D it was just cunningly invisible on Google maps. We had gardens and, more importantly, a beach.
Four Quarters, looking back from Spain.
We spent our final day in Spain, having walked from Gibraltar in search of some more interesting fare. The views of the Rock are better over the border too. It gave me a chance to see the flat by looking through the wire fence, across a thin strip of no man’s land. We could hear the sounds of a Coronation garden party in full swing, the tannoy playing music and announcing the winners of a quiz. I was transported back momentarily to my eighth birthday, a carefree child once again.
As a short break destination, Gibraltar has much to offer, particularly for those interested in history. Situated at the ” Pillars of Hercules”, the entrance to the Mediterranean, there are constant reminders the military past the Rock is famed for. Cannons galore and bastions and fortresses abound. Trafalgar Cemetery is atmospheric, whilst the Gibraltar Museum holds many delights and tells not only of the distant, Neanderthal origins but also of the evacuation of the entire population during the Second World War. It houses the remains of a Moorish bathhouse and acknowledges the cultural diversity evident on the streets outside.
Evidence of past occupation.
Was my trip worthwhile? Well, of course. I found all the places I remembered and shed a few tears for my family no longer here. Travelling in the 60’s gave me a lifelong obsession with seeing the world, and I have my parents and the little Vauxhall Viva to thank for that.
Late to the party, 20 years late let’s be honest, I became hooked on “The Sopranos”. It started gradually, finding myself drawn in by the earworm opening music and driving sequence, following the main man to his doorstep, by way of the New Jersey turnpike. I loved that reference in “America” by Simon and Garfunkel long before I fully understood what a turnpike actually was.
I found I was in good company. Jenny Eclair also missed it first time round. She said so in “Woman’s Weekly”.
I was surprised by my ability to process the grisly deeds perpetrated by the “family” and horrified watching the characters switch from clubbing a human to a bloody death to eating dinner with relatives and friends. In truth,their lives played out like the rest of us; worries about children, relationships,addictions , it’s just that theirs were juxtaposed against the crazy violence and irrational hatreds of the mob.
Six series in and a daily dose of Carm and Tony blurred the lines imposed by covid. The ending was much debated,with critics deeming it unrealistic. For me,it ended perfectly. No spoilers just in case, like me, you’re coming late to the party.
It all started with a phone call. A voice on the other end.
“I’m sorry to call you at work but we have a problem with Pauline.”
“What sort of problem?”
“She’s drunk.”
“Really? “
“We think she’s finished the whole bottle.”
At this point,I should explain,for those of you unfamiliar with my deliciously unhinged late mother, that she happily spent the last sixteen years of her life in a care home, suffering schizophrenia and later, dementia.
The bottle was of course the one I’d brought in the previous evening at her request. I didn’t expect her to neck the lot by ten in the morning,though! In her later years she became more and more assertive,wanting very little but absolutely determined to have things she felt were justified, like biscuits,toffees and occasionally wine. Making up for her past days of privation and and subservience to husband and family,perhaps.
The wine incident was one of many. A call describing “What Pauline’s done.” could cover anything from throwing a full tray of cutlery at the cook or losing her imaginary bottle of perfume and arguing with her best friend / mortal enemy ( also called Pauline) who was, according to my mum, a Nazi spy.
Recently, she’s been in my thoughts because of the shameful scenes in Britain’s supermarkets. Toilet roll has become more covetable than any bling.
On a visit to see my mum about year before she died, the manager of the care home took me to one side.
“I’m afraid we’ve had to be very firm this time. “
The alleged crime? Blocking her own en suite loo with copious amounts of paper, stealing rolls from other resident’s rooms and raiding the store cupboard for toilet rolls to stockpile.
When finally challenged, after several kindly interventions, she did her best “Mrs. Bucket” and outraged, exploded, “It’s my human right to have as much toilet paper as I need.”
Pauline 1, care home nil. They couldn’t argue with that logic and soon Pauline had forgotten all about the bog roll standoff, whilst I braced myself for the next phone call.
Thinking of panic buying toilet roll? It’s probably your human right …
In December we adopted a kitten to fill the gap left by the legendary Tipsy. She has settled into life here with gusto, wreaking havoc wherever possible. Books on cat training pile up from the library, cat litter goes to the top of the shopping list. Her main aim is to escape an indoor life of curtain climbing and cat toys. She is obsessed by the shower which has a heated floor, perfect for stretching out and napping. The leaky shower hose was of great interest for a while. Now,she meows to be let in whilst I’m actually in the shower and she plays “chase the drips” on the shower door. At first it was a bit disconcerting but after a while I now automatically leave the door open and she happily gets wet. I thought cats were averse to water. Truly,they are strange creatures.
With some anticipation, I lay on the well- used mat ready to begin a yoga class billed as 60+ friendly.”We breathe deeply in our poses.” the information stated. Good,I mused. I can do breathing. Being an erratic exerciser I haven’t done yoga since pre – children in the ‘eighties when I attended Wendy’s yoga class at the local church hall, Thursdays after work. I remember with slight nausea trying to attempt ( unsuccessfully ) first a shoulder stand,then a headstand. There seemed to be a lot of pain, no gain but it was a darn sight easier than jazz dance with fellow lycra – clad twenty – somethings at Pineapple dance studios. All I recollect from those days is getting up there from SE 25 on my motorbike. Not yet having traffic lights at Hyde Park Corner spiced the journey up a bit.
Wendy was pushing forty but looked twenty and advocated practising yoga every day. How I wished I’d followed her advice. Too late now, as I sat up and the yoga teacher here in 2019 advised us to listen to our bodies. Mine was telling me to go and get a nice cup of tea and maybe a smidge of cake. Around the room around a dozen spritely seniors got going in “Downward dog”. I remembered being upside down made me feel sick and heroically fought the impulse to stand up and sneak out. Some minutes later I found I was actually beginning to switch off from the outside world a little. Not for long though. Who knew breathing could be so complicated? The elf – like teacher gently reminded us to connect with our bodies and focus on our breathing. I glanced over at Paula, a lady in her seventies, with two knee replacements whom I’d chatted to before Pilates class a couple of times, when she’d asked me about the crochet I was doing whilst waiting for the class to start. She looked like she was breathing, stretching and connecting very well. After the class she told me it was her third that day; she’d already done Pilates and hula hoop. Good grief!
Several poses later,the breathing part started in earnest. Lying flat on our backs we were encouraged to dispel outward thoughts. Brilliant. Not a problem. I’m really very good at keeping completely still and breathing quietly.My family say I sleep like a corpse. Just practising… I perfected this strategy from a very early age, in case there was a murderer in the bedroom. Play dead, they’ll go away. So far it seems to have worked.
Back on the yoga mat my eyelids were shut and my limbs felt heavy. Then I thought about that piece of cake. Washing my hair. Cleaning the fridge. Cute cats. Changing the bed. What the kitchen cupboards would look like with a coat of chalk paint and new doorknobs. Windowboxes. Cake. By the time I’d worked my way through that lot the teacher was telling us to sit up and we all finished by namaste- ing and clapping. Well done, I thought. Very productive. Senior yoga nailed.
This morning I read two articles on shoes, the first with the seductive title “Sex,power,oppression: why women wear heels.”
“Running down that aisle.” another debate, described the rise of the trainer as designer bridal wear.
Whilst both articles quite rightly probed the questions of mysogyny, feminism and women’s rights , they overlooked what is more critical for most of the older female population – comfort.
In my teens I was a Saturday girl in a provincial northern town, working in Manfield, a long – forgotten shoe shop. The street was known as “Shoe – shop street” with branches of Dolcis, Saxone ,Freeman, Hardy and Willis,Timpsons and Clarks. Manfield was old – fashioned in comparison to Dolcis,which had trendy styles and more fashion – conscious, younger assistants. It had the kudos of being right next to Chelsea Girl,too. I tried Dolcis on my hunt for work, but settled for Manfield as they could take me on straight away. The manager was ancient ( probably around fifty) and the other assistants were mums. As far as I was concerned it was the epitomy of everything I rebelled against as an angsty teenager. Until they started stocking platforms. This was the too much to resist. Most of my pay would be saved until I could afford to buy the objects of my desire ; cork – soled clogs,strappy black wedges,purple suede three inch platforms. I drooled, my mother despaired.
At the same time, in a parallel universe, down on London’s uber – cool King’s Road a young man from Brixton was flogging shoes to rich women in Lilley and Skinner.
When we moved in together he commented on how many pairs of shoes I seemed to own. This, coming from someone who had worked in a shoe shop surprised me a little but I ignored him as it seemed a bit dramatic to finish a relationship because of my shoe wardrobe.
When we bought our first flat together I announced one Saturday I was going shoe – shopping, because ” I need a pair of shoes for work.” On my return I found he had been very busy. All thirty – two pairs of my shoes were lined up neatly along the long corridor. I skilfully justified my new acquisition, pointing out the necessity of every single pair in my collection. After that I learnt to hide them in nooks and crannies or leave them in the car if he was home before me.
Platforms were replaced by stilettos. One memorable holiday to Corfu in the early ‘eighties saw me panic – buying a pair of white stilettos. I only wore them once, falling on my face from a great height after a few two many Pina Coladas.
Trainers pretty much passed me by. I did own a pair of black Reeboks but they were strictly for aerobics classes. Trainers and baseball caps make me shudder.The trainer generation can keep their designer treads,although I have seen a few pairs of Skechers which might now fit the bill. I always coveted DM’s. I had a pair of their star cut – out sandals but they were too heavy to lift my feet off the floor, what with my dodgy hip..I don’t think I’ve got enough time ahead of me to break in a pair of their boots…sigh.
With ageing, the trouble with footwear is not whether it empowers or impedes the wearer but how COMFORTABLE it is. Feet become a topic of conversation and I can moan about painful feet with the best of them. Occasionally, I do buy a ridiculous pair for old times’ sake, but they soon end up in the charity bag. A girl can dream… I still hide new ones, though.
I’ve always loved buttons. I mean, really loved them.
The pleasure of rummaging through a box of buttons as a child hasn’t diminished with age.Treasures waiting to be discovered for the first time or new finds which give a thrill ; it all amounts to a little bit of an obsession. The chipped grey metal oblong tin belonging to a long- gone Pfaff sewing machine given to me by my mother still holds memories of clothes worn and almost forgotten, a cat bell and tiny red plastic barrel from her collar revealed a rolled scrap of paper with the name an address of a feline companion in the days before the micro – chip.
Being a fibre and fabric fiend I rarely pass up an opportunity to add to my collection.Working in a Tudor manor house I came upon a stash of buttons at the back of a dusty art cupboard.The building had been a special needs school for many years and no doubt the button collection was left over from the old days of handicraft lessons. Needless to say they were quickly rehomed and I have added gorgeous, unusual buttons to many sewing and knitting projects from this unexpected haul.
Vintage buttons offset the print.
When news of the button skip arrived I was twitchy to say the least. Near the high street is a small building set slightly back from the pavement which always intrigued me. The plate outside simply states A.Brown and co. Buttons.
About a week ago my husband came in and blurted out ” There’s a skip full of buttons outside that button place….and it’s being ransacked by a load of old ladies.Just thought you’d like to know.”
This set my pulse racing but I was hesitant. For one thing, I’m trying my hardest to clear things out of my over – stuffed little house in preparation for moving , death, a new kitchen , or whatever the future holds. The second thought is that if I’m caught knee – deep in buttons in a skip my family would have to disown me.
Coming back from knit night that evening I felt that the cover of semi – darkness would enable me to peer into the skip without being noticed. It was almost full. Bags of pale yellow buttons were crammed next to silver, tortoiseshell and navy ones. A box of metallic ones lay open enticingly and I shiftily pocketed a handful.
I still wasn’t sure about a daylight sortie, but my husband assured me that it was fine, there were loads of women piling in.
The next day when I went back the skip had gone.
“It’s probably for the best.” I concluded, sadly. My stash would already take me years to use up and decluttering is the order of the day.
The following day I was heading away for the weekend and needed to go to the atm on the high street. For once there was a parking space right next to the button place. I parked and walked a few paces to see the skip was back and pretty full. A dozen or so women of a certain age were busily filling carrier bags or trolleys with their loot. I joined the throng hanging over the sides and soon realised that everyone was having a jolly time. Boxes were filled,exclamations over colours and new finds rang out and there was a definite party atmosphere. At one point a young woman rolled her eyes as her mother, standing in the skip and sinking into the quicksand of buttons declared that she had lost a shoe! With a collective effort the shoe was found and the woman continued handing out treasures to those not brave or agile enough to climb in.
In the twenty minutes or so that I stayed to fill a couple of boxes and bags, I met an old friend from days with small children, was invited to join a local knitting group and had a laugh and chat with other button addicts. A community brought together for a short time by a shared addiction and an eye for an opportunity to add to a stash. We all love free stuff.
My family has a track record of tragedy and trauma in India. Bearing this in mind, I felt well prepared for my second trip, choosing to join an organized group as a potentially safer alternative to solo travel.
With special school risk assessments still vividly etched on my brain, I was careful to the point of obsession. No fruit, no tap water, no ice in a g and t , no meat, fish or street food. Water bottles were wiped with anti – bacterial cloths. No killer bugs for me, thank you.
Sunscreen, sunglasses, anti – uv umbrella, I had all the kit. Although Mysore is not a malaria area, I used full – strength deet, repelling any form of insect life.
Out of the security of the hotel I kept my camera, phone and wallet well out of sight and held onto my bag with a vice- like grip in crowded areas. I was alert to feral dogs, cow pats and my particular phobia,birds. I used my now well – practised ” fuck off” face when approached by hawkers. This is counter intuitive, as I generally attract anyone within half a mile with a learning difficulty, mental health issue, autism or disability. That is probably why I worked in the SEN field for the final twelve years of my teaching career.
Crossing the road, travelling around the city and out into the country to visit temples and historical monuments, I took care.
Visiting a slum project I used up bottles of hand sanitiser gel. On the streets, I dodged cavernous gaps in paving slabs, missed puddles of stagnant ,filthy water and piles of fetid waste.
Health and safety – children playing with a fire.
Never alone, my walk on a Sunday morning to the supermarket felt relaxed, ordinary. Chatting with others in the group, I was happily enjoying the warmth of the January sunshine as we passed charming houses in an affluent area only a few minutes from the hotel. Shopping completed, I missed the others as I waited at the wrong door and was somewhat distracted by the dancing on the wide – screen tv. Taking the side exit fromthe supermarket I noted the large rat heading down a crack and felt at ease – after all, rats are everywhere and they don’t scare me.
Spotting my companions ahead of me, the yellow cow ambling along the road near them held me up for a couple of moments whilst I took a video clip. This was the moment when India bit back. I turned the corner to see them admiring the cow. I briefly considered calling out to them, but dismissed the idea for fear it might startle them and the cow. Cautiously, I took a wide berth around the cow as she put her head down to graze in the remnants of cardboard packaging and plastic cups. At that moment, she turned and without warning ran at me, horns connecting at hip level. I felt myself fly into the air and heard myself scream. Landing on the dusty road I had grit and dirt on my hands. My phone lay a few metres away, screen smashed.
The bruises were ugly and long- lasting.I replayed the scene over and over in my mind to pinpoint exactly what I did that sparked her anger.
India, I concluded, is beyond risk assessment. And cows are food, not friends.
What’s the worst job you’ve ever had? Mine was washing faeces off the toilet wall on the geriatric ward of the local hospital when I was a young student. I was fortunate enough to know that this wasn’t a job for life or my only option. Another summer job was sorting the post in the British Council offices. Both gave me an insight into unpleasant and boring employment, but at least I earned extra cash to support me through college.
Over the years I worked in numerous roles and would happily join colleagues griping about getting up early on dark winter mornings, annoying bosses, long hours and a plethora of similar work-related complaints.
Seeing the production of jaggery in Karnataka state made me reflect on the plight of workers trapped in low- paid, sometimes dangerous,often tedious and tiring jobs with no prospect of improving their lives. Jaggery is produced by boiling sugar cane juice until it resembles fudge. Used in numerous dishes and in traditional Karnataka sweets such as paayasa and unday. Jaggery has religious significance for Hindus all over India.
Whilst extracting the juice from the sugar cane is no doubt hard and repetitive work( the lad feeding the hopper with broken down cane was around eleven and already essential to the process) my heart went out to the silent worker feeding the fire under the massive cauldron with the discarded cane fibres.
Feeding the fire.
The jaggery takes around a day to reduce to the required sticky slabs. It must be hot, boring and not without risk. No hope of escape.
Jaggery production, Karnataka.
Hard to imagine this,day after day.
My student jobs were brief and inconsequential, easily forgotten, a means to an end.
Sweeping the dust seemed at first to be pointless. Everywhere I went in Mysore and its’ surrounds, people swept ineffectually at the thick red dust moving it around in a never ending cycle.
Collecting dust. Somnathapur.
Around the hotel green – uniformed staff , barefoot, swept the leaves and kept the gardens tidy. After much thought, my son suggested it might be a way of keeping insects and snakes at bay. Every job has a purpose, though it might not be obvious to the outsider. The poem Desiderata tells us to
“Keep interested in your own career, however humble..”
I’m not sure the man on cauldron watch would see it that way.
This morning I read two articles on shoes, the first with the seductive title “Sex,power,oppression: why women wear heels.”
Stories and stitches 