A misfit in Liverpool
I think of oranges when I see a painting by Constable of a morning sun
that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some
fishermen trying to catch eels on the dark surface of the bay.
There were sail-ships too ready to hoist sail in the morning wind.
When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most
of them, nice blokes, but during the miners´ strike, they became
radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up and
were also promised plenty of overtime.
John, a police constable  fifteen years on the beat and no promotion-
a friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head,
he continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised,
a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after
hours, we drank ***** with orange juice, lamenting the time we lived in. John took early retirement, and I sold my cafe.