She relaxes in the park, sculpting clay.
The February sun filters through the leaves and caresses her legs in dappled bronze. She wipes her damp brow absentmindedly – it was never this warm back home.
As she works, a constant torrent of unfamiliar faces sweeps past her morning retreat. A hungry tram rattles past, pausing now and then to swallow another willing sacrifice.
Alone in that park, surrounded by four million strangers, she crafts without the weight of preconceived opinions. Who will she be today? Will she be haughty, kind or commanding? She tries on personalities like clothes. Like moulding clay.
Alanah Andrews 