She says the same words each morning  “Good morning. Which room number are you?  Which breakfast would you like?”and then attentively brings   morning coffee and croissant and disappears behind the counter.  Same thing every day,  day in day out. “Good Morning… Which room number are you….which breakfast would you like”. 

On the first day I  noticed a dark bruise on her right wrist. It was the bruise of a gripping hand. Each day I’d watched her and wondered how such a circular bruise could happen.  Only a grip. Then I watched how taught she was.  How she seemed to be nibbling when  stood still. Of how tense she was.  But this morning was different. “Would you sign my poem.” The breakfast woman says nervously   “I’ve put it on the wall in the back”.  There in the back room were the smokers hang out a tiny stamp sized piece of paper is carefully cut out and   stuck upon the wall taken from the brochure.   I sign it and she smiles. “which breakfast would you like” she says.

I am having vivid dreams. Last night my birth mother  said she  wants all record and memory of herself erased from anything I have ever said, particularly the internet.  I wake
in some distress wondering what I have said and deleting everything from my computer and the internet. 

After breakfast both seni severatne, Eric Miyeni and I go for a walk.  We are looking particulary at how areas which were slums in apartheid days (slave areas) are now sought after properties hijacked by people who can afford them freezing out thsoe who deserve them. Economics is a science abused by those who understand its formula.  Estate agents are agents of a state.  We see a sign, an official steel sign,   next to a murial  that proudly says“ Know  your past build  your furure” It’s one of the best spelling mistakes I have seen in a long time and now I wonder whether it was a spelling mistake at all.