Work

In the morning, there's futile work.

"Work isn't noble by default" my babka says.

She spits on the pan to see if it's hot, or hot enough. I watch her saliva as it splutters, cooks, vanishes.

"Most work is shit"

We move this pile of rocks from one place to another. Both places seem arbitrary.

"It's a rockery" says the probation worker.

Nobody responds.

" - For the children?" her voice rising, exasperated.

The children are dying. Would I want to die here? Does the presence, now, of a begrudgingly assembled rockery make this prospect seem more, or less appealing?

Yesterday we pulled stuff from the river, a section of the river earmarked as a future nature reserve. The boy next to me talks too much. He's worried about prison. (I don't remember his name) He's worried about prison because you can't update your Facebook page from there. Other people might take advantage of your absence.

"I don't really use it" I say, checking inside a decomposing leather glove for the remains of a hand. He pulls some face at me.

"Cunt" I say, quite loudly, stuffing the glove into the pocket of my waterproof trousers.

"Tourette's - sorry"

I smile at him, weakly.