Wildflowers grow in a hunk of muddy sand under a downpipe where sandy particles have washed into the alleyway. Little seeds have blown in there at some point and wild peonies, violets, buttercups, and Queen Anne’s lace have sprung up. They are splashes of blue and orange paint on a grime-coloured canvas. The flowers don’t make me think that there is hope in here.
They remind me of all the colour that’s outside.
They remind me I have to get far away from the Cloud-sleepers and the Kmart losers and set up a life. A cottage looking down on the sea, with a big garden and chickens and pigs, yeah, that’s me. A husband? I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll probably go lesbian. Boys are trouble.
My girl and me pluck fistfuls of flowers and work on some kind of service for Carol Shepherd, mother, grandmoth
