My grandmother, in the kitchen,
is talking to herself.
‘I had a friend called Alice,’
she intones, low voiced.
‘My friend called Alice baked bread;
she baked bread, ever day,
She was ill, and never told anyone
(I never told anyone
this, but she never did.)
Then she died, and nobody worried
no one had worried, she never
told anyone – so,
nobody ever did.’
My grandmother, in the kitchen,
keeps talking, telling herself. She says
she had a friend called Alice – she
says this baking bread, her daily bread –
and I know she never did.
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Australian-born, with English mother, has lived in several Australian cities and in London. Travelled widely. Way way back when, published widely as a poet and short story writer. For the first 20 years of my working life I worked as an entertainment journalist, publicist, PR consultant and in advertising and media agencies. In the second 20 years, I worked in marketing roles at non-profit organisations then retrained as a teacher, primarily teaching English to non-English speaking, newly-arrived refugees. Also did miserable McJobs, and a long, happy stint at an art gallery.
