We were walking amongst the yams when she fell. Not a typical spell, but a grand mal. A sow’s language is in their writhings, and they come down direct, from the Almighty. People put a lot of stock into book reading, hardly none into fit reading. I wish I was unlettered, I would have preferred ignorance to her revelation. The yams will fail, likely blight, not that it matters much. I was beside myself with grief.

I’m ashamed to admit, but in my consternation I took to the diesel rag. At first I inhaled slowly. I closed my eyes and could see a picture story. It was of you and I. It looked as clear as images from a lightening box. Nothing fanciful, you were pinning clothes to the line. The wind was tangling your hair into the lilac branches and you were laughing, I think I was too. This enraged me beyond toleration.