Touching the Earth
WHEN I was eight our favourite mid-summer game was jumping onto the road and feeling the hot bitumen squish between our toes. Our feet were so thick-soled from going barefoot that even bindii eyes couldn’t penetrate, nor broken glass unless it was a sharp shard.
My Mum had weird big city ideas: she wanted toilet paper, not sheets of newspaper, even when I pointed out that there was nothing to read on toilet paper. She also expected me to
