Alison Wells Author

On the school run, when my son falls and loses a part of a beloved toy, on the way to a meeting, in the queue in the post office I can feel a restlessness, a tap tapping that doesn’t manifest in outward signs but seems to propel and spin me anyway. The man in front of me at the post office queue is wired, sprung, defensive when the queue moves forward. I feel a hidden electric, dangerous, volatile. I sense my own agitation, witness it, let it be.