©DavidVale
CASTING PROTECTION
Anthony thought I was mad the day I came home with the
umbrella, a large colourful striped one that sat neatly in a hole in my cart. For
years I had worked this spot. Shadowed under the tall apartment buildings on
either side where the sun rarely reaches the ground. The wind gusts down Long
Lane and flicks up the papers on sale, I use a peg to secure them. On Monday the
chatter of women echoes above my head followed by the un-oiled squeaks from the
pulleys. Lifting the tines of the umbrella to its full height it casts a shield
over my wares. Anthony looked puzzled at me.
‘It’s to finally protect the paper’ I said
‘Protect it from what’ asked Anthony
Drip, drip, drip
‘Washing day’ I sighed
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