The community festival
I was there, no idea why.
Perhaps it is this dichotomy, drives me.
this grotesque village idyll with its drunks, the brave daughters and dedicated mothers.
God will reward them, probably in the next life.
And then a still, revulsion, if the petty, the smell of burnt sausage and tilted mixture of beer, the generously-chummy fuss.
I hate-love.
The grinning faces who think they know you, the lack of interest in your real bad I hiding. This rejection catching my village.
Played reality against the backdrop of the old church, overlooking the new boiler of waste incineration plant
