The Baker’s Wife
Either this life I’m in is very dream-like, or this dream I’m in is very life-like.
Just eaten a crispy Pain Au Raisin. That’s a Danish Pastry to you.
Bought it from Barnby’s the Bakers in Hale. Mrs Barnby is one of my heroes. All hail Mrs Barnby.
She exists in a beautiful vacuum. Time stood still for Mrs B circa 1955. Her hair is pigeon white, and she always, without exception wears a slide, to keep it neat, to keep it to one side.
I have to go now. But later I’m going to talk to you about baps. And your hero. Who is your hero?
The wanderer returns. I’ve been to a lecture. It was a lecture with 3 students. Ennui reigns supreme here; just pipping apathy and lethargy to the post.
Is this good or bad?
Following the lecture my friend and I ambled into the village for a coffee. We shared a sandwich and banter of the he said she said they said no way variety. And then we discussed brokenness. We also discussed the fixing of brokenness. Then we left, irked by the waiter who was afflicted. Not only did he suffer from very crusty acne, he also had a problem with his eyes, wandering eyes, wandering all over your breasts eyes. I didn’t notice this, but my friend said you couldn’t miss it so bloody obvious. What else could we do but console ourselves with a visit to the Charity Shop next door? Brokenness reigns in the Charity Shop. The cracked and scruffy and fractured and crushed remains of jumbled lives. All waiting to be fixed.