Brows furrowed, The Committee returns from closed session to repaint the dicta on the old barn door. It’s mostly a matter of Thou shalt not, because that’s just how they roll, so there’ll be no gods before breakfast, no gravy images, no taking the name of the Lord in a van, and on, and on, and, quite frankly no one will read to the end of the list. You see, it’s not about the reading, or the prohibition of acts that no one ever even contemplated: we just need to acknowledge the fresh paint, white on green, and the fruity plastic tang of volatile organic compounds tainting what would otherwise be a fair-to-middling morning. As tradition demands, The Committee sits silent on the best chairs, dragged outside for the occasion, available for Q&A. But, of course, no one speaks, as we silently honour the feathers and moths in our fluttering breasts and, besides, our mouths are painted shut
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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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