Bedouin dream
I’m a young boy. About 10 years old. Dressed in dirty white clothes. I’m not British. Moroccan, perhaps. I have friends.
A circus or fair or market. White tent fabric snaps and flaps in the breeze. Many tents. A bustling place.
There’s a fat boss man. Black suit, greased-back hair, moustache. He doesn’t like us.
There are boxes full of silver cutlery for an event. Tables laid out. Pale blue cotton cloth covers the knives but we can see them beneath.
Shiny. Carving on the handles.
We know they’re valuable. Want to steal them.
We cause a diversion. I take one of the boxes and stroll away.
When they realise some of the knives have gone I duck into another tent. There’s a counter. Men standing. Waiting to buy something.
The boss man shouts and points. Overweight middle-aged police in grey uniforms come looking for us.
Not the kind of police you want to annoy.
I hide in the tent. A man looks down and sees me holding the box of knives.