Usually some old crone was squatted on the earth floor, weaving cedar fibre or tatters of old cloth into a mat, her claw-like fingers twining in and out, in and out, among the strands that were fastened to a crude frame of sticks.
Who am I? Just a middle-aged guy, who enjoyed the fruits of ill gotten wealth, as an entrepreneur of recreational medicine.
Perhaps it was the too-tooing of the youth on the coach horn which frustrated the proposal, and made it appear ludicrous rather than insultive to her ears.
In war-time, self-sacrifice would be the obvious appropriate antidote to this depression, and some such mechanism is clearly at work in, for example, Vera Brittain's self-flagellatory dedication to her voluntary nursing, ...
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