‘When I grow up, mama, I want to be a boat!’
‘Oh, dearie! You can’t be a boat. You’re a trailer.’
The little green trailer clutched to his dream. Every birthday, he blew out the candles and submitted his wish to the great big petition box in the sky. But each morning, he would wake up to find his wheels still attached, his body still squarish and, soon enough, rusting.
His hope, now, is small. Years of soul destroying drudgery — lifting and trundling and carrying and bitumen — had ground even the happiest little trailer to trailer trash.
Hi Joan, just to say a word of “Hello” to you. Happen to know your cool blog from my Chevening scholar friend, Alden. By the way, I enjoy reading ur post and the not-so-cliche’ pictures. Cheers!
That was a great post. You make me feel bad for not doing literature at high school.
Thanks, auhem. I don’t know how much credit Mr Bryson et. al can take for this trailer fantasy 🙂