Standing on the patio that my grandfather and two Polish men laid I see the marks and indentations made by the iron gate on the red brick.
Everything else was - to my eye at least - precise and neat. Each brick on the cottage neatly pointed, each tile on the roof carefully laid, such care and attention to detail in the border for the now sparse and weedy flower beds. The expertise of professional paint strokes on the wooden front door. No matter how many times you sand there is a trick in the hand of a person who knows how to do things, that gets things just right, just so. The gateway badly measured out, ill fitting, silver iron retching into brick with every teeth grinding open and close. A decision made by someone else's mind and hand. It stands out like a sore thumb.
What we do, who we are, is evident to see in even the most mundane of choices.
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