Due Care and Attention

Due Care and Attention

I lead an active life

But I’m very clumsy

And I bruise easily,

like when I give blood,

or bump into furniture,

or trip over uneven paths.

He always comes with me

And waits while I’m treated,

like when I fell off my bike

and smashed my front teeth,

or skied into a tree

and fractured my arm,

or tipped over the roast pan

and burned the skin off my hand.

Today I played netball,

collided with a player,

and broke my nose.

The nurse looks at me

and at him, waiting,

and she asks, quietly,

“Is that netball?”

I say yes. Out loud.

For the first time ever.

What happens

Now?

With a Pinch of Salt

I've been thinking about my post last week, and what an incongruity there is between the epergne that was awarded to the Campbells, and the bushrangers who attacked them in their home. I am often inspired by the authors I read and I am currently reading both 1788: Comprising of A Narrative of the Expedition to Botany Bay and A Complete Account of the Settlement at Port Jackson by Watkin Tench, and Diary of a Somebody by Brian Bilston. 

While describing the behaviour of the convicts in Port Jackson, Tench lamented that they were punished for stealing food. Rations were systematically reduced as food was scarce, but the convicts still had to toil for long hours in high temperatures "without adequate refreshment." Those who stole food were frequently flogged and chained together. Tench decries, 

"The first step in every community which wishes to preserve honesty should be to set the people above want. The throes of hunger will ever prove too powerful for integrity to withstand."

This is as true now as it was in 1788, or in 1864 when the bushrangers stole from the landowners. And it seems trenchantly symbolic that the victims were awarded an ornament designed for displaying and sharing condiments in turn created to enhance and complement fancy food. With this and the pithy wit of Brian Bilston 'the poet laureate of Twitter' in mind, I crafted the following (with apologies to both).

You were always keen as mustard,

To spice things up,

Not to curry favour

But to rub salt in the wounds.

So you got us all in a pickle

Then sat back gingerly

All big cheese and toffee-nosed,

As though butter wouldn't melt.  

Paddock to Plate: Orange Regional Museum

On a trip to Orange, when Him Outdoors was busy competing in a cycling race, I went to the regional art gallery and museum. Their exhibition was Paddock to Plate: a history of food and wine in Orange and the district.

While it did pretty much what you would expect - using historic objects and photographs to illustrate how growing, processing, distribution and consumption of food has changed over time - it was curated in an interesting and interactive fashion, encouraging visitors to learn more about the stories of the people of the region. The exhibition starts with the mountain, an ancient volcano, which created the soils and climate that attracted indigenous people, then others from across the world. 

Stories about producing, processing and forces of change run around the perimeter walls, giving space for large farming objects and showcases containing smaller artefacts. A range of farming tools is mounted on simple white backing boards, so the timelessly beautiful shapes of these objects can be clearly seen. 

Curator Sandra McEwan and the museum team assembled an impressive trove of over 200 historic from around the Orange region with enormous variety of size and scale. Ploughs, refrigerators and a rare wheat flail join whisks, butter pats and dainty mementos of dining in a bygone era. 

Central to the exhibition was the concept of food in the home, and this was represented through a stylised 'kitchen' displaying utensils in a pigeonhole format that echoes kitchen cupboards. Some of these cupboards are see-through, and others have solid doors. Each door has a single word printed on the face giving a clue to the use of the object inside, such as grind, whip, cut, beat, squeeze, shape, lift, protect and hold, which sounds either like cookery, cosmetic surgery or a particularly violent poker game.  

A dining table is covered in a series of projections showing changing styles and tastes of home eating from the 1800s to today. One table features a display of seeds and legumes as in a curiosity cabinet, including wheat, wattle, apple, pumpkin, hazelnut, cucumber, kurrajong and kangaroo grass. 

Paddock to Plate tells the story of food and wine production in this beautiful district through the stories of people, place and a passion for produce. Lists of words always inspire poetry in me, so naturally I took myself to the café where I had coffee and cake and thought of my domestic culinary memories.

Pitter patter of kitchen helper;

patty cake with butter pat,

licking clean the whisk and spoon

with mother in the warmest room:

better batter on baking day.

Friday Five: Inverse Positivity

One of my favourite words is discombobulated. The sound of the perfect match of vowels and consonants goes some way to making up for the slightly weird effect of the feeling. It led me to wonder if there is such a thing as combobulated, and I was interested to learn that there isn't. Similarly, one can be overwhelmed or underwhelmed, but never simply whelmed (although the word 'whelmen' is a Middle English term meaning to turn over.) In an article from 1953 entitled The Mystery of the Vanished Positive, J.H. Parker wrote about this phenomenon known as unpaired words or absent antonyms.

One of the ways in which these words are created is through 'back-formation' in which a new word is created by removing affixes. For example, the noun 'resurrection' was borrowed from Latin and then the verb 'resurrect' made its way into the language hundreds of years later by removing the '-ion' suffix. Many English words are formed this way but because they may sound odd, they are often used to humorous effect. 

'Far from being quite gruntled'

Novelist, humourist and all-round wit, P.G. Wodehouse, made good use of this when he writes in The Code of The Woosters, "I could see that, if not actually disgruntled, he was far from being quite gruntled." In Scrubs, Turk tells another character, "I don't disdain you! It's quite the opposite - I dain you!"

One of my favourites is the word 'ruthless'. One expects there to be a corresponding 'ruth-full', but it appears not. I like it particularly because one of the characters in Arthur Ransome's Swallows and Amazons, Ruth Blackett, captain of the Amazon, changes her name to Nancy because she wants to be a pirate and her Uncle Jim tells her that pirates are ruthless. 

Swallows and Amazons in which pirates are ruthless

5 Unpaired Words:

1. Disgusting - from Latin gustare, meaning to taste; the antonym, desgouster, appeared in Old French, but there is no English reverse equivalent. Although wind can be 'gusting', that comes from a different root altogether, gustr, being the Old Norse word for 'cold blast of wind' (circa 1580)
2. Gormless - Once again Old Norse used the word gaumr meaning care or heed. In dialect English, the word gome is found to mean notice or understanding (circa 1200). In the 18th Century there is evidence of the use of gaumless or gawmless to mean wanting sense/ stupid. One cannot generally be gorm-full
3. Feckless - Clearly meaning lacking in feck, but what is feck? It is a Scots/ Northern English corruption of the Middle English word effect, so feckless is synonymous with effective. Unfortunately the use of 'feckful' as a substitute for effective is no longer common
4. Inept - Similarly, we rarely describe someone as being ept, due to a linguistic quirk. The word inept comes from the Latin root in + aptus (not + able/fit). Whereas English kept both inapt and inept, the language decided to only retain apt and ditch ept. Shame.
5. Nonchalant - Sadly, there is no word 'chalant' in English. The word 'nonchalant' derives from the Old French word nonchaloir meaning to disregard (non + chaloir = not + to concern) Therefore the opposite of nonchalant is concerned or interested, not chalant.

The English language is beautiful and rich and multicultural. I love it, and I love writing and playing games with it. This is a poem by the aforementioned J.H. Parker being comically feckful with absent antonyms.

A Very Descript Man

I am such a dolent man,
I eptly work each day;
My acts are all becilic,
I've just ane things to say.

My nerves are strung, my hair is kempt,
I'm gusting and I'm span:
I look with dain on everyone
And am a pudent man.

I travel cognito and make
A delible impression:
I overcome a slight chalance,
With gruntled self-possession.

My dignation would be great
If I should digent be:
I trust my vagance will bring
An astrous life for me.

COVID-19 Friday Five: Sometimes When we Touch

Chester and me

Touch is natural. It is healing. It is how we calm, reassure and express our affection. For the people who like to hug, this has been a tough few months. Even for those who don't, we have had to modify our behaviour and attempt to alter our instincts. Thank goodness we are still allowed to pet animals and cuddle the cat.

A couple of weeks ago I was out walking when I came across a woman who had sprained her ankle. Others were with her, assisting, and we stopped to check she was okay. Someone was crouching beside her, placing their arm around her shoulders in a universal gesture of support.  She and her walking companion had a phone between them them and they were able to call for help.

The first responder on the phone was asking lots of questions and giving medical advice (they were on speaker-phone so we could all hear) and at the end of the call the person stated that they had to ask some COVID-19 questions and began to ask whether the patient had recently been overseas or come into contact with anyone who had, or had symptoms or had been in contact with anyone who had symptoms. 

At that moment, the assistant looked shocked - "I hadn't even thought of that" he said. Of course not, because as a decent human being, our first reaction when we come across an injured person (or animal) is to help. And that help often expresses itself through contact. It's who we are. And, while the current medical guidelines suggest that we don't for our own health, it is really difficult to overcome that instinct. 

Physical proximity of the kind about which we are now warned, also indicated trust. Some sources suggest that the history of the handshake dates back to the 5th century B.C. in Greece, and was a symbol of peace, showing that neither person was carrying a weapon. Similarly, one of the theories about why we clink glasses before drinking is also about trust and intimacy. Back in the days when poisoning a foe's drink was a convenient way to kill him off, it was believed that if glasses were filled to the brim and clinked hard, a bit of liquid from each glass would slop into the other. Mixing drinks and then taking a sip was, therefore, a gesture that you trusted your drinking partner (at least not to murder you). 

Whereas these are extreme measures, it would be a shame if our lack of touch led to a lack of trust. These times make me really conscious of the physicality of our communications.

5 Touch-related common expressions:

1. Get in touch/ keep in touch/ lose touch
2. Lend a (helping) hand
3. Welcome with open arms
4. Reach out 
5. Give a hand up/ hand out

And this is my performance of Mrs Midas by Carol Ann Duffy; a poem that explores the effect of the tactile. Enjoy!

Fishing for Compliments

The Princess Diarist by Carrie Fisher

(Bantam Press)

Pp. 251

This book was published shortly before Carrie Fisher died, which gives much of it added poignancy. It is mainly about her experience filming Star Wars; her youth and her inability to deal with unanticipated fame; her affair with Harrison Ford; her reaction to the conventions; and her irritation at being expected to still look the same now as she did then. The book is not particularly well-written, but it is honest and candid – the inclusion of her diaries and poetry written during the filming of Star Wars is a brave move – and ultimately very readable.

No one was prepared for the reception that Star Wars would receive. Her life was changed forever by the film refused to remain on screen. She was defined by one character with whom she has a love/hate relationship. “I had never been Princess Leia before and now I would be her forever. I would never not be Princess Leia. I had no idea how profoundly true that was and how long forever was.”

She writes with attempted nonchalance and sangfroid and is candid about her own drug addiction. Her style is deliberately self-effacing and jocular in tone, and although she presents her thoughts as raw and elemental, she has clearly polished the words into something she imagines is witty. There are a few insights into the behind-the-scenes goings-on during filming (such as the fact that due to her grimacing each time she fired the laser gun, she had to take shooting lessons from the man who prepared Robert De Niro for his role in Taxi Driver), but film geeks will probably know all of these already.

Her renowned advocacy for gender equality is evident and she had crippling anxiety about her looks, relating that she got the part in Star Wars on the proviso that she would lose ten pounds. But she also confesses she enjoyed the one-sided nature of the film, and to loving the male attention that came from being “the only girl in an all-boy fantasy.”

The main thing to emerge from this book, however, is her affair with Harrison Ford. She mockingly refers to their relationship as ‘Carrison’ and, although it comprises over half of the book, she pretends to dismiss it; forty years afterwards, she still tries to downplay it, which conversely gives it excessive importance. Obviously, this is one-sided account, but Harrison Ford doesn’t present very favourably. He seems like a predator from the first time he takes her home drunk from a cast and crew party. She was young and naïve, and he was careless of her sensitivities and her desperate neediness. She fixated on him like a smitten teenager.

He doesn’t talk to her, make her happy or feel good about herself, and he exacerbates her insecurities and anxiety. It seems that he is cold towards her, but perhaps that is just his nature? She records in her diary, “I act like someone in a bomb shelter trying to raise everyone’s spirits.” While it is brave to include the diaries and gauche poems, they are excruciatingly painful to read. Every teenage girl has written self-indulgent nonsense like this, but not always about Harrison Ford. One could argue that she knew the situation – he was married – but she tries to manipulate the reader into feeling sympathy for her.

She concludes with her feelings towards the fans at Star Wars conventions, and it is clear that she is not comfortable with the entire charade. It’s fair to say that Carrie Fisher’s relationship with Princess Leia and Star Wars in general, is both complex and unresolved, which is distressing as it will now forever remain that way.

Celebrate Now!

Jubilant entertainments

Make the most poignant memories.

The saddest I am is when

I remember happy days

We can no longer share. But

I’m grateful for the experience

For all they make me cry.

So, yes, I shall celebrate

Every birthday, anniversary

And significant milestone

With those I love while they live

Though the same occasions,

Like unforgettable grave markers

Will haunt me when they die.

Getting cocky

If you’ve ever wondered who

Would win in a fight

Between a sulphur-crested cockatoo

And a trio of Bratz dolls,

I could tell you.

On the roof

Are three mini macabre mannequins

With tatty clothes and tangled hair

Tossed there by the girls next door

Who find it hard to differentiate

Between torture and play;

Sugar and spice.

The cockatoo attacks;

It holds the dolls with a gripping claw,

Gouges their vacuous eyes,

And tears off their heads with

Its creatively curved beak.

Darwin’s design never envisaged

Such scenes of savagery.

The pompous image is punctured;

The tarnished attire is tattered;

The big-headed idols are vanquished.

A victory for the sulphur-crested suffragette

As she rips apart the ridiculous facade,

Exposing the ‘reclaim your inner slut’ mantra

As offensive, puerile hokum.

But the bird is a boy

And the violence feeds baser needs.

Some would say they asked for it,

Dressed like that.

Corridors of Past Power

As we have just suffered a general election in Australia, I thought this would be a good time to record a visit I made to Old Parliament House back in May. Although I intensely dislike the new Prime Minister and his party, the whole concept of democracy is an honourable one, and the place in which it is (or was) conducted is a venerable building.

A tour had just got underway when I arrived at Old Parliament House, so I joined it. We began in the Senate, which is decorated in red, similar to the House of Lords, and has panels on the windows to reduce glare and enhance acoustics. There is a special seat reserved for the monarch and consort or the Governor General and spouse.

Dividing the Senate from the House of Representative, the King’s Hall (named after King George V who was king at the time it was built) is bright and simplistic – a classic design. There are bas reliefs in the columns and portraits hung on the walls which are owned by the National Portrait Gallery for Old Parliament House.

The House of Representatives is decked out in Eucalyptus Green (an Australian take of the House of Commons). Old Parliament House – or Provisional Parliament House (PPH) as it was called – was in use from 1927 to 1988. The benches are all made of alternating panels of Australian black bean wood and Tasmanian Blackwood.

The Speaker’s Chair was a gift from Britain and is a copy of A.W.N. Pugin’s Speaker’s Chair in the House of Commons. The Royal coat of arms over the chair is carved in oak from timber originally built into Westminster Hall in 1399. The hinged flaps of the armrests are of oak from Nelson’s flagship HMS Victory. It was built using traditional medieval methods (no screws or nails etc).

As one of only two international gifts of furniture to be presented to Provisional Parliament House, the furniture has great symbolism, alluding to the Australian Parliament’s associations with British history and the Parliament at Westminster. Sir Littleton Groom, the first speaker in the PPH, stated the chair stood for ‘the authority, honour and dignity of Parliament… it will inspire feelings of affection, esteem and gratitude towards the land that gave birth to Parliamentary institutions.’

This relationship was reinforced when the Speaker’s Chair in the British House of Commons was destroyed during an air raid in 1941. The Australian Government presented the British House of Commons with a replica Speaker’s Chair carved by British craftsmen out of Australian black bean wood with ‘The Gift of Australia’ carved across the back. It tickles me to think that each Parliament has a foreign Speaker’s Chair.

The mace is another gift to the Australian Parliament by Great Britain. Made in London, it was designed to resemble the Mace used in the British House of Commons but is etched with designs of fruit, rams’ heads and wheat to symbolise the importance of Australia’s sheep and agricultural industries. The gift in 1951 marked the silver jubilee of Australia’s federation. The real mace is obviously in the ‘new’ Parliament House (referred to throughout the tour as ‘the house on the hill’); this is merely a replica.

The tour led us through the warren-like maze of corridors to the Prime Minister’s suite of offices. They were commissioned by William McMahon but he never got to use them as he lost the 1972 election to Gough Whitlam. Each Prime Minister to work from the office chose artworks for display, located his desk in a different position, and chose new curtains.

 

 

In its current configuration, it is presented as it was during Bob Hawke’s term of office, as the last Prime Minister to work in PPH. The Arthur Boyd painting on the wall is a replica of his choice, which has been the subject of much symbolic speculation. The Prime Minister’s Secretary had a peephole into the PM’s office, which probably also raised plenty of discussion!

 

We were also guided to the Government Party Room, where every newspaper in Australia was delivered. It was the only way many could find out what was happening in their constituencies. The sound-proof telephone booths were apparently often used for private conversations with two or three members squeezing in there.

Members must never miss divisions and there are clocks here as there are in every room so members could always see one – there are over 900 in the building. When the bells rang, the members had three minutes to reach the chamber and they would race along the corridors – staffers knew to stand back against the walls to avoid being flattened.

Our tour finished, we were free to wander the building and look at whatever we chose. It seems that for all its foibles, it was quite a popular building and one member even felt moved to write a poem for it.

Farewell Old Parliament by Ralph Hunt, member for Gwydir 1969-1989

Farewell to you Old Provisional

As we your spirits depart

Leaving our house so traditional

Another era is about to start

We leave you as an empty shell

A host of memories to protect

No longer will you ring your bell

Calling politicians to reflect.

Walking Dreams

In dreams I can walk on my hands.
Not a useful talent,
But a good party trick:
It entertains, and people smile.

I launch forward through my arms;
Lurching from side to side:
Chest pushed out; neck stretched;
Legs bent over like a question mark

Asking when will I fall,
And if it’s before I wake,
Will I die in my sleep?
Is that entertainment?

Dry Stone Walls

When people ask me (as they invariably do) what I miss about England, I respond; family, friends and football - in no particular order. I also miss English drama, comedy, theatre, sense of humour, beer and pubs. There are also certain things that have the capacity to make me homesick, but I never knew that the Public Footpath Network and dry stone walls were among them. It seems I am not alone in this.

When I posted photos of my trip home on My Week in Pictures, the Weevil told me it was those very walls that made her want to go home. So this is for her:

Geological Geometry

Grey lines dissect the green hills,

Marking out history with geological geometry.

Where the softer South grows hedges,

The stony North builds walls

To separate the sheep from the goats;

The cows from the arable crops;

The personal profits from the fallow fields.

There are stories in stones;

Placed by hands imparting human shape to the landscape

Following the contours of ancient shifts and rifts;

Settling the wrangles of nosy neighbours

And stopping the stock from wandering;

Retaining plain sailing on rolling pastures

Layering parallel lines with through stones.

Boundaries of boulders to guide and direct;

Selecting the right path and bypassing the pitfalls,

With occasional bolt holes to squeeze through

And narrate a particular past

Without words to cement sentences:

Two stones above a stone

And one above two.



 

 

 

Street Poetry

Edinburgh has gone arty for the Festival. Around the base of a soaring giraffe sculpture are words inscribed in circular iron lettering: ‘Giraffes! People who live between earth and skies. Each in his own religious steeple, keeping a lighthouse with his eyes.’

I read out the words with awe. Him Outdoors has seen different words advertising breakfast – unaware of the latent lyricism he says, ‘Coffee and tea – 49p. I’m not right into poetry, me.’

National Poetry Day

Today is National Poetry Day so I thought I would share with you one of my lyrical creations from yester-year. One weekend as some friends and I were camping out at Bob's Cove we decided to entertain ourselves at dinner (hand-caught and barbecued fish) by inventing poems based around celebrities - yes kids; that's how we used to amuse ourselves before we all plugged in to i-phones!

I don't think I'm boasting when I say that my poem is the one that is still remembered by the group several years later. In fact, of everything I've ever written, this is the only thing that anyone ever quotes at me. I'm not sure what sticks most in the memory: the deceptively simple but subtly complex structure; the mesmerisingly eloquent rhythm or the deeply insightful persipience. I'll allow to you make up your own mind.

Russell Crowe

Russell Crowe

Wants to know

Where to go

In the snow.

Could you show

Russell Crowe

Where to go

In the snow?

No.

My Song

After dinner we sat as you sang

With your guitar and capo

In your black bean bag and orange shirt and socks,

Strumming songs about family and friends.

Some sang along

With those they knew,

While others absorbed

The personal and political.

"I'm in love with the free world,

But the free world's in love with itself."

Sister and father

Reflect anguish in a chord change.

"Do you remember when you hated the world?"

Slow down.

Song is closer to smell than memory;

Nostalgia brings tears to my nose.

"You're so fucking special."

I wish I was special.

One day I want someone to write a song for me.

But I'm scared of what they might say.

Wasps

Wasps, ha! What are they good for?
Absolutley nothing. Am I wrong?
They hover and bother around the jam
Drowning in beer and tyrannizing ice-cream;
Buzzing with menacing irritation
Approaching with waves of Doppler effect.

They invade picnics, like live grenades
causing otherwise mild-manner folk to shriek and flap
Batting the striped terror into the faces of
Friends and loved ones – save yourselves!
A mate used to trap them in old coke cans
And when they were dizzy with sugar,
He pulled off their wings – dicing with death.
Iain Banks had the right idea.

We shall fight them on the beaches;
We shall fight in the fields and on the streets.
At least bees are useful making honey –
They even sound funny as they bumble their way
Through hives and combs – neat and furry
With nectar encrusted feet.
And they only sting once.

I once asked my father why wasps existed.
With typical trauma-inducing paternal reasoning
He replied, ‘Well, why do you exist?’
I’m still not sure. What am I good for?

Bush Bashing

Thrust through the verdant tunnel to
Plunge into the yawning green.
Ferns and fronds drip and drip,
Raindrops shimmer on glossy shiny leaves,
Spider’s webs quiver glistening in the breeze,
Birds beckon; feathered sirens
Luring you deeper, darker, deeper
Into the heart of dampness.
Breaking through the bush line
Where mist clings like a moist poncho
Swaddling arms and movement
In a straight-jacket sheath

Calm quiet with invisible scrabblings
Hidden in the fecund decomposition
Where who know what grows.
Climbing back into the car and locking the doors,
Cocooned in a metallic pupa.
Driving away from the throbbing green centre
Back to the tarmac,
Fumes, dogs and squabbling kids,
Energised but disturbed
By this brush with nature.
Still unfurling; pulsing; reaching; grasping;
Waiting.

Winds of Change

Today is Whitsun or Pentecost. From the Ancient Greek meaning fiftieth day, Pentecost is not the noise made by Ivor the Engine (as I used to imagine when a child), but is rather the fiftieth day after Easter.

According to the New Testament, it was the day when the Holy Spirit came upon the apostles ‘as of a rushing mighty wind’ with ‘cloven tongues as of fire’ and they all began speaking in tongues, going out and about preaching to crowds and gathering new followers to the church.

This all sounds highly dramatic and is the basis of many works of art depicting a strangely violent purification process. I particularly like this from Linda Schmidt who is a textile artist and quilter. I can imagine ribbons of flame make a great subject for patchwork.

One of my favourite parts of the story is that when the disciples all started babbling away in foreign languages, sceptics claimed it was because they were drunk or ‘full of new wine’. Our vicar pointed out that ‘alcohol rarely helps me speak English any better, let alone a foreign language!’ Peter is said to have leapt up indignantly and announced that they couldn’t possibly be drunk because it was ‘but the third hour of the day.’ Like that’s any excuse!

Alexander Sadoyan also warms to the theme with this remarkable portrayal in oil on canvas.

In legend, King Arthur always gathered his knights to the round table on Pentecost and had a big feast and declared a quest. In reality, medieval English folk had a ‘benefit feast’ to which everyone was invited and made a small contribution to the church which was used for repairs or distributed as alms to the poor. Special ales were brewed and Morris dances were performed. Any excuse for a festival. As with most traditions, it was partly parish and partly heathen but it sounds like a lot of fun and a time to celebrate community.

It is a day I have always associated with wind, in which case, what better place to celebrate it than Wellington? Or perhaps Christchurch where the famed nor’westers drive everyone mad, although they do get the sheets dry. I found a poem that I wrote two years ago about the wind in Wellington, which I feel fits perfectly here.

Morning regime

It’s windy in Wellington,
No surprises there.
No wonder the women all have short hair
I think as I walk past covens in cafes
And down to the sea.

Waves whisk foam like frothy cappuccinos
And the wind whips my breath
And the salt and seaweed away.
I lurch sailor drunk in erratic zig-zags
Sea-legs on shore.

The in and out pebbles
Clatter like castanets;
Driftwood dances tangos.
Is this what they mean by multicultural?
Kirikiritatangi.

I am blasted by sand and water
Rough edges smoothed out
Dead cells sloughed off
No need for further beauty or exercise regimes

I am ready to face the city.

Picture by Tiffany Chantel.