Yellow Rubber Washing-up Gloves

With her hands in yellow rubber washing-up gloves she puts her arms around his neck and he pretends to be reluctant to cuddle. She is so proud of him for losing weight (five kilograms in three weeks) and he is grateful that she is doing the Saturday morning chores when it’s actually his turn. Relieved at finding evidence of beautiful love in this world (a broad and toothy smile, a giggle, a pair of yellow rubber washing-up gloves and a stomach on diet) I turn to the door and an unusually blue sky. Statues greet me on the west bank of the Thames – Emiline Pankhurst demands that I recognise equality; the burghers of Calais ask if there is any justice to be found so close to the grand halls of power. I cannot tell them I have seen evidence of these things; I can only point to a jogger with her slobbering dog, a grandfather and two bundles of mittens and boots and hats on swings, couples sitting on benches (there are still and still couples sitting on benches) while the seagulls cry out what I could not have believed yesterday: Fear not, there is love, do not worry, there is much love.

 

< Prev		Next >