The jolt and hum of the train, the green hills smudging past and, across the aisle, my nieces—two coltish girls on the thorny cusp of womanhood.
Three times in as many weeks: hail. Pearly gemstones plinking down, making a spectacle of themselves, just when we all thought the day might clear.
When the shaking started, I was deep, deep down—cocooned in a dream that was yanked away from me when terror plunged its greedy hand into my sleep and hauled me spluttering towards the surface.
It’s true, I’m employed again.
Years ago Dad bought a 1986 right-hand drive Land Rover Defender, named her Matilda, and sawed her in half.
Let me be the first to tell you I’ve forgotten what it was I wanted to say. The words I’d been saving squandered elsewhere.