As a child I used to spend a good part of my Saturday mornings browsing in the second-hand book exchange above the butchery my mother visited every week. It was, I believe, run by a woman by the name of Marion Arnold, whom I was delighted to re-encounter in 1986 (probably) at the Grahamstown Festival of the Arts, where she gave a talk on her own art, the theme of which was communication. I was struck by the excellent balance of light and colour in the painting which she kept as her final exhibit entitled “Conversation”, I think. It was an ebullient piece the focus of which was a pair of teapots with their spouts facing each other. I was similarly struck by my instant urge to offer to purchase the work immediately. This impluse was swiftly followed by the realisation that my dungaree pockets were entirely devoid of cash.
I was used to the cash issue. It began in the book exchange. My weekly pocket money was five cents. Two books cost six cents. Six ounces is how much flour you needed to bake our family’s favourite sponge cake. The new Kindle weighs only 8.7 ounces, including 3G and Wi-Fi, but excluding black leather case.
I shall have to work hard at generating some extra pocket money.
The word in bold appeared in the previous post.