During early May, mothers held children up in their arms to thread flowers into button holes and behind the ears of the bin men.
“Good morning!” she said, gingerly lowering the plate into place and sitting down in front of the writer. Surprised, the man spluttered something unintelligible and in the confusion knocked over the salt-cellar, spilling most of its contents across the table and onto Mia’s lap.
Bottles of sauce, salt and pepper, a glass of water, a coffee cup and saucer are distributed evenly in order of height, on both forward flanks of the table.
Her voice is soft and kind, soothing and sensual. She asks us to create a state of awareness around the big toe of our left foot. (read more)
Pressure. Always pressure. Never a few hours to think, sit in the garden, sip tea, sketch out ideas onto paper. Never.
Bethany adds two further ingredients, transforming the toast into a snack. Butter (soft, unrefrigerated) and a sticky, dark brown paste with a strong distinctive and salty flavour.
“I could draw in each mole, every dark pigment, birth mark, blemish, contour and crease found in his skin. I could map out Jake like the night sky and with the same degree of accuracy.”