|Sketch of Mrs White: from 'Why Do We Have To Move.'|
(Today the pen etches secret prettiness: a wedding commission. Can't divulge yet!)
The fire is lit. Piping, strong and pitch-black I drink up coffee: slap mustard and garlic all over my food. I am feeding a cold. I think it's dying. If needed, there are offers of sympathetic soup, to drown it.
I am well enough, after yesterday's rest, to go out to work: encased in vest, shirt, over top, leggings, trousers, scarf, ski socks and baseball style boots.
To my reflection I say, 'It's a look.'
I get a look back, unconvinced, but warm.
To my students I say, 'I smell of garlic, mustard and Vick's Vapour Rub. Any of you have difficulty breathing, it's either because of me, or you need to stand next to me, and I'll clear those airways.'