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I read somewhere (where?) this week about a writing exercise someone (who?) used to give her students that involved writing down six things they had seen that day (or was it the previous day?). I thought I might give it a go.
6 things I saw today
P. who is Portuguese smiling enthusiastically as she tells me
how much she would like (or maybe has liked) working in catering. Later in the
conversation I fail to explain what a prune is.
The chain on my bike comes off for the umpteenth time this week. I wheel it back to the garage, open the garage with the remote control, put it back in its place (ie. abandon it in the middle of the apocalyptic mess that is our garage interior). I decide to take E’s bike. But I am stumped by how to kick the stand back into place. Defeated, I walk to work.
I come across a friend and neighbour in the street with his mother. His mother doesn’t live in this country, but she doesn’t live in the country she is originally from either. And yet, she looks exactly like my mental image of all of the other mothers from that country — olive skin, dark eyes, gold earrings — and I could easily have guessed where she was from.
A long queue of cowed people in the Post Office. A dumpy woman with squint eyes behind glasses and baby sick stains (or maybe not) on the front of a grey fleece jacket. She leans into a man with hair cut right into the white of his scalp. They all stand in line silently. No trouble. All desperate, no doubt, for whatever money it is they are expecting.
A large organic lemon with a pale, thick skin ripe for grating and adding to a pan full what was to become poulet au citron.
The chain on my bike comes off for the umpteenth time this week. I wheel it back to the garage, open the garage with the remote control, put it back in its place (ie. abandon it in the middle of the apocalyptic mess that is our garage interior). I decide to take E’s bike. But I am stumped by how to kick the stand back into place. Defeated, I walk to work.
I come across a friend and neighbour in the street with his mother. His mother doesn’t live in this country, but she doesn’t live in the country she is originally from either. And yet, she looks exactly like my mental image of all of the other mothers from that country — olive skin, dark eyes, gold earrings — and I could easily have guessed where she was from.
A long queue of cowed people in the Post Office. A dumpy woman with squint eyes behind glasses and baby sick stains (or maybe not) on the front of a grey fleece jacket. She leans into a man with hair cut right into the white of his scalp. They all stand in line silently. No trouble. All desperate, no doubt, for whatever money it is they are expecting.
A large organic lemon with a pale, thick skin ripe for grating and adding to a pan full what was to become poulet au citron.
2 comments:
have forgotten password
It is late and I am exhausted trying to prove I am not a robot ... but very happy to read this blog
Comment soon
cheers
warren
I think you may be the only person reading!
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