One of my favourite recent postcards reveals a side of me of which I was not aware.As I step out of the front gate I am nearly mowed down by a string of track-suited runners. Pad, pad, pad, puff, puff, puff. Gosh, I say as I nearly collide with a thin woman, hair plastered on a moist forehead. As she turns her head in my direction, she manages as agonised half smile.
From the particular to the apocalyptic, the notice on the window of the shop which sold country clothes and has been closing down for the last month, proclaims Everything Must Go.
1 comment:
The joggers bring to mind the documentary I saw with David Hockneywhere he is smoking on a bench in Kensington Gardens. The joggers go by and one of them waves a scolding finger at the painter for smoking a cig. Hockney turns to the cameraman and says that he thinks he is fitter than they because they can't fully see the tree they are running past. This mind be extended to they almost can't see the people they nearly mow down.
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