Or a sort of emptiness It’s like an ache. Or a sort of emptiness It’s like an ache. Or a sort of emptiness. I begin to see the sense in the wearing of black – a widow’s weeds. It warns the rest of humanity that you’re a-comin’. Like a bell or a big black flag. It also makes you look on the outside how you feel on the inside. Wretched. Bleak. Blasted. As if death is on you. Which I think it probably is. If I was young I’d want to keep the old folks as far away from me as possible. You wouldn’t want them around, reminding you how decrepit you may one day become. I’d herd us all up and drive us off the nearest bloody cliff. I passed a couple of schoolgirls waiting for the bus this morning. They were chatting – about their hair and the advantages of having it long, because then you can do so many different things with it, and so on. I don’t know how old they were. Fourteen or fifteen maybe. Two sweet little things, who’d obviously got up an extra hour early just so they could primp and prettify themselves.
