(Exerpt from "On the Laundry Floor", coming soon to a bookshop near you...)
I remember romping as a child. I remember dying as a child. I remember feeling the beauty of life, though not appreciating it then. There were friends. There was my family. There were lots of things waiting for me to do them, and, I suppose, more things waiting to do me. I used to ask a lot of questions and say a lot of nonsense.

Then they silenced me. I can’t talk to people freely anymore but they say there was a time I never stopped yapping.

Sunday is always a beautiful day for commuting. The queues are shorter. There is very little traffic on the roads. Hwindis are calmer. Commuter drivers are less ruthless with the accelerator.
I decided to go to church last week on Sunday. On the way to town I was the only passenger on the commuter omnibus until we stopped to pick up an aged man, maybe in his sixties, in a very ragged pair of overalls. He was carrying a welding machine and struggled to get it onto the bus.