I wark with Mam from hous to hous for hairdressin. I lern abowt her ladies that liv in littl shady flats & ruind houses with fotos of long gon famlys arownd them with payntings of grene & flowery sunlit plases on the walls. I sit on sofas sippin joos or nibblin a biscut or suckin a swete wile Mam brushes & cuts & cowms & washes & natters & gossips & wispers with them. I lern abowt the ins & owts of styles & rinses & cuts & blowdrys & perms & hiylites & straytenin.
We keep seeing the artist Elizabeth. We see the remants of her scratchd drawings in the dust & how ther blown away by wind & time. We see the pitchers she sctratches into warls — pitchers of pepl holding hands & pepl in groops & pepl with ther arms arownd each other. One day she runs to us and gives us drawings of ourselvs that shes rippd owt from her book. We put them on our kitchen walls.
She says that 1 day soon she wants to leev Blinkbonny and return to the life of wandering that she had befor.
