Sophie shakes her head and says, No, something simpler we can scribble on walls fast and without the alarms the white rose’d sound. She’s right – again – but before I get a chance to throw a tantrum, a brainwave strikes.
How ‘bout a daisy, then?
(Yes, this is the second time I used this line in a title.)
Mary’s tried to tell the joke which, last night,
had her snort vodka and orange with laughter;
either she got it wrong or it isn’t actually all that funny.
I soak up the tears so your pillow won’t get wet. Every night you say you won’t fall asleep; you always do. Because I’m here to restore some of the comfort the muffled voices drifting up from downstairs have taken from you.
I don’t understand the words. I don’t need to. I know they make you scared and my job is to make you feel safe and secure. The louder they shout, the more you need me.
You rescued me when they wanted to throw me out. I may look old and threadbare, but you know what I’m capable of.
A blog of my new book project, an eightieth anniversary retracing of the famous 'crusade'; a protest march from Jarrow to London by unemployed workers in October 1936