There was once a woman who gathered worries as others gather flowers, beer steins or antique cars.
She lived in a pretty house with a pretty garden full of pretty flowers and scrumptious vegetables. She loved her beets and marrows and dahlias, but most of all she loved her worries. She couldn’t get enough of them.
She’d even borrow worries from friends, beg for their cast-off worries.
Word spread and soon people came from far and wide to give her their worries.
She kept the ones she liked best under her bed, in a rectangular wicker basket. Those worries she didn’t care for she burned on the bonfire on Saturday mornings when the wind was blowing in a southeasterly direction, away from her house.
She only gathered women’s worries. She made this decision reluctantly, but as she told herself, she did know her limits. Anyway, the men were perfectly capable of looking after themselves.
Every morning she sifted through the worries in her basket and decided Continue reading