Meg Pickard
I was whizzing down the M1 motorway on the hottest day of the year so far,on my way back from the family home, which is about to be sold. I'd spentthe weekend sorting all my teenage junk in a hot, stuffy, dusty house,getting sad about throwing stuff away. My boyfriend was driving and singingalong to cheesy eighties pop on the radio. I flipped down the sun shade andsnapped a picture. I look tired and hot, and over my shoulder you can see apile of junk - the few remaining things I couldn't get rid of: a vase, somephotos, a box of books, a map. At the bottom, you can see the roadstretching out in front of me. There's symbolism in there somewhere.
06 2001
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