Chapter 4 Sick London.
I was 28 in London trying to avoid the shit and spit on the gray streets. I wore a migraine like a halo. As I walked my feet sunk down into the pavement rather than propel me forward. Stalked by illness I felt like a shattered mirror, the pieces flying apart and yet kept static by weary concentration.
After reading another lacklustre side bar about planting at Kew Chief-Ed Orla sent the entire staff an email ordering us to list friends and relatives, however tenuous the connection, that had interesting houses with herbaceous borders.
This coincided with my concerned editor offered me a change of scene with our New York office. “You and I can get Orla off our backs big time…go South for a couple of weeks interview your Georgia clan. Leave out any thing about oppressed labourers…do they still oppress?”
“I don’t know… I’ve never met them. They’re pretty remote on the blood line…”
She wasn’t listening too pleased with the lifeline she had thrown us both. I went along with it. It sounded like a holiday on the firm and all sorts of stuff is cheap there.
Some cheap holiday it cost me my soul.
I started out in their New York offices just as a courtesy as they were paying for the Southern odyssey but two writers left to work on a screen play so I picked up their slack. And I loved that slack. After the bleak wastes of LondonNew York was a dream: Brownstones; silver spires; and steam rising from the side walk. It was like living in a film. Then I went south.
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RandomThis is a Southern Gothic tale about Waker's journey to herself. However, the author plans a rewrite to smooth out the edges for a novella or screen play. The controversial content may preclude a movie but it could make a nice radio play for a rainy...
