A practical turn to my wedding outfit: I must find a cover up for the bruise on my arm.
Off shopping then. Quickly. Time is of the essence, as they say.
On the slip road to the A30 a hearse is pulled up, hazard lights flashing. The coffin is draped in a cloth, bright clear red, under a circled wreath.
How this contusion arrived, I don't recall, no matter how I frown. I drive: give up. There is a bruise: that is all that can be dredged.
A white crop cardigan suffices, matches the white flip-flops, the pearly Alice band, the damaged beaded bag that I bargained for.
It's a good bruise. Puzzles me, how I missed the cause of it.
It's the shape of a heart.
So, here I am, pulling odd faces in concentration, trying to take a picture of my heart-bruise. Either mystery or symbology makes it a perfect subject.