The other sunny day, leaving for good my job pestering already-charitable phonecall recipients to buy into a lottery for Age Concern, countering all arguments, as instructed in a full day's training,
Get your arse here you scraggy little bell-end! roars the human equivalent of the boulder in Indiana Jones. Pounding the streets like Bogart in a Chandler talkie, she grabs the replica kit collar
I'm leaving, said the employee. Don't try to stop me, block my path, delay the inevitable. The folly would be obvious to an imbecile. Any fool with a working history can see in my face that the time has come.
The "R" on Buffy Swearboard. Choral. A mispronounced minister's title. The Out Hole. All these. A miracle of elasticity under certain filmic conditions. A hairnet trap for varied emissions. The summer villa of the haemorrhoid family.
The lighting in our old snaps is soft and brown-gold, like a 70's lampshade. It's as if nostalgia has been inked in at the sides, or my mother dyed the single tuft emerging from my monkey head ochre.