A friend of mine lent this to me today so I could write something about it. It happened to be that I'd never seen it before, so it qualifies for the blog. So, I thought hard about what the little man was, what he represented, and I got inside him, felt his hollow clayness, wondered whether the character was the soldier or the clay, and thought about how the clay must feel having an identity imposed upon it, in an attempt to make the "divine spring" as Katherine Mansfield would have it:
On the train home I can hear them talking about the day. There's a nervous pitch to their discussion, which I haven't heard before.
"I really enjoyed the great hall"
"Yes, the ceiling, the vaulting I mean, is amazing, and the cupola, it was just beautiful, but a shame about the gate way."
The carriage lurched as it picked up speed and stopped her answering momentarily.
"Yes, it was meant to be Portland, but the contractor bought it on the cheap from France."
"Brittany, actually" I picture his face as I first saw it from the shelf, with the seriousness blanking all his features. Inside my white paper bag, carefully creased, I would laugh if I could.
On the crowded train they aren't able to do te one thing I've noticed they love to do since they first picked me off the shelf; talk about other people. Their inane banter continues for some minutes as they discuss the dull niceties of the sights of the day. Long before exhaustion could set in they lapse in to silence.
I begin to suspect I am a mere token artifact of their day. It wasn't about the museum trip. To them tourism is a tea shop and toilets, somewhere they can watch the crowds.
"It's the one after this," he whispers to her as the train slows.
"Thank goodness he's getting off," she murmurs, "I don't like his shirt."