One evening while Carmina was packing away the Christmas lights with an odd shriek here and there and her husband who was loading up several items in his battered car, I walked with Valerie down to the pond. There I had erected a steel dustbin with paper...
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One evening while Carmina was packing away the Christmas lights with an odd shriek here and there and her husband who was loading up several items in his battered car, I walked with Valerie down to the pond. There I had erected a steel dustbin with paper and wood; water can by the side just in case. The evening was soft. A slight chill in the air. Autumn was arriving Slowly. 'What are you burning? Not all your things?' 'I can’t take all this with me. Letters, postcards, papers, all the old press cuttings, scrapbooks, stuff…' 'But your stuff,' she cried. 'It doesn’t matter; it’s just stuff.' There was a little breeze but not enough to send sparks flying. 'But what about your books, you haven’t burnt them?' 'No. I have kept them and the manuscripts and stuff I have been working on. They’re all safe.' 'But what about all those letters Anthony wrote to you?' 'Burnt. I don’t need them.' There was a moment of silence as we both stared the steaming embers. 'I think you’re rather foolish.' I s
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