I spent a pleasant hour or so this morning photographing an angel. I'm afraid it's not been having a good time of it lately. Not exactly fallen, more grubby. The finely carved head had hair extentions courtesy of an industrious spider or two and, although it's in a tightly enclosed space, a bird had seen fit to christen its forehead.Please note that I have carefully avoided assigning a gender to this figure. Although angels are not within my life's remit, I must assume that they are neuter - anything else would be grossly one-sided. Whatever it is, I couldn't leave it in this state. With the help of a convenient brush, a lens tissue and some spit, I restored to it some semblance of its simple beauty.
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It's probably just me but somehow angels and spit seem, well, at odds. D'you know what I mean? I sort of feel that they should be preened by flocks of white doves or something. But there is no denying the efficacy of the spit.
At school I endured "RI": Religious Instruction.
If you put an "r" and an "i" into "spit" you get "spirit". I doubt it was holy in this case, though I'm sure the thought was clean.
I did try the village shop for white doves but they were right out.
........ Sorry, that was just so totally unbelievable - not the bit about the doves but the possibility that there was a village shop - finding one of them in England these days would be a miracle.
And if there was one, I bet it wouldn't sell spit so there you are...who needs shops?
True, Pauline. We'll have barter instead or just old-fashioned good deeds.
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