Long evening looking west at the broad beans, and the neighbour's house beyond. Sketching. My friend says that it's easier to speak truth to strangers: no baggage, no come-back. He says that his son won't speak to him - won't tell his dad what's on his mind. We drink beer and black coffee on his allotment. We sit looking through his vines at his garlic and his tomatoes. He's good at growing stuff - it goes back to his childhood. He's tells me about his cat - how it went missing for two days and came back injured. He worries that someone deliberately harmed his cat. We look at his beans. He gives me strawberries. |