We bumped into one of our neighbours when we walked into town yesterday afternoon and asked him about the building work that he is having done. My guess had been either for a conservatory or a possibly even a swimming pool. But no, it’s a kitchen extension. I commiserated with him over the mess. And that’s when he called me by that name. Mine’s a simple name, I think. Not much room for error one would imagine. Nevertheless I’ve been called by various other monikers. Sometimes the e is replaced by an i or an a or an e is added to the end or there’s an h put at the front. Is it that people don’t listen or perhaps they have never heard of Ms Terry, or Ms Barkin or Ms DeGeneres? I thought about this new version after he left us. And actually it felt OK. A new identity. Why not?
I’d come across David Hockney’s sketchbooks and sank. Other people’s brilliance always has that effect on me. No? he said. Then I picked up. I rooted through mine trying to find ones for the photographer to work with. And they were OK. Not brilliant but they show promise. I think. Then the sun shone and we went to the library on the hill and he was nice and then we had some tea and I drew and then I walked home in the sun. And then we went out again and the sun still shone and I closed an account that I’ve always had trouble with and we walked back in the same sun.
Elsewhere though, people are dying, needlessly. Where is acceptance in that? Show me.
