Traveller Tat Grief
Those dear readers who have persevered long enough at reading my self-indulgent waffling may remember that quite a long time ago I wrote a blog which contained a section about how you can always tell travellers (the back-packer variety as opposed to the gypsy) by the fact that somewhere on their body (ankle, neck or wrist) they’ll have some tatty, raggy bit of stuff which they got communing with a shaman on a mountainside somewhere and have never removed (https://bluefairypipedreams.wordpress.com/2012/01/21/the-ultimate-conflict-of-interests/). Mine is a (formerly) blue and yellow cotton braid that’s been on my ankle since 2010 when a dashing Bedouin man tied it there.
Now last night we were sitting in Toby’s Bar and James (Jim-Jam) was lamenting the fact that he’d finally given up the 10 different wrist bands which he’s been wearing in a ragged clump for years. I was attempting to sympathise so I raised my foot up onto my knee and pointed to my ankle, “this has been here for two years now…” I said before I realised that there was nothing there! The frayed and faded scrap that hung in there for 24 whole months, surviving sea and sand and sweat and me inexpertly trying to shave my legs around it was gone. Unbelievable. It was filthy and scruffy but it had seemed so secure, all that’s left now is a thin white line where it used to be; like a ghost. My ankle looks naked. Sad times.