She fixes my requisitions
Bringing flowers to my lab.
Lambs' hearts for dissection by reluctant, squealing Year 10 girls.
Fragile seedlings of Bra**ica rapa
Petri dishes ripe with the results of last week's mobile phone swabs.
Looks up diabetically to her non-existent heaven.
"He does bugger all around the house these days".
He has dug this clay for six months
And every day grows harder.
Alone.
He alone has had all the jabs.
Back breaking resurrections in the crypt of St George's in Hackney.
The morning… a whole mummified baby, nearly seven hundred years old ...
The afternoon…three femurs (but no lower leg parts).
All went to unconsecrated landfill near Northampton.
“We save Lead-lined coffins for scrap”.
He digs deeper.
Her anger grows.
She questions her atheism.
While his trust in God is ferried piecemeal up the M1...
In trucks funded by the National Lottery.
Neither one talks much of work.