By the Thames at Eaton, a paper-trail of hot-dog wrappers (hot-dogs, eaten at Eaton) lead me to a ‘sleepher’ (a woman, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping like a log. A variation on a hot-dog?). Notice the mirror. ‘Mirror, mirror on the grass, do I wake her or do I pass? No. Mirror, mirror next to the head, is she sleeping or is she dead? Held the mirror in front of her mouth, see if her breath misted the glass? No, not me, I'm not Quincy. I passed - carried on up-stream towards Cookham - Stanley Spencer country. But not before admiring my reflection in the mirror. And I'm not John Hilliard, either.
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