My resolution to converse more with my fellow inmates is beginning to pay off. I’m remembering names, finding common interests. Even trading empty cans and soda water bottles for home brew. One resident at least is keen on collecting the ten cent deposit on empties.

Today we had more to talk about. The management of the stalag sent round an encyclical laying out the obligation of every resident to keep their grass cut, weeds and bushes trimmed, dead leaves raked up and put in designated receptacles. Also, there were some pointed requests for vans and cabins to be cleaned of dirt and mildew. This latter might apply to me, so I dealt with it swiftly with the aid of a mop and a bucket of water with Domestos bleach.

I’m a bit fazed by the lawn mowing expectations. I already pull the weeds out, but am I really expected to have a mower or whippersnipper for 30 square meters of weedy sand? What exactly am I getting for my $190 a week if not a level of service?

All over the camp there are huddled groups. Is this the beginning of a revolt? I don’t think so.

Author: Uisce úr

Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.

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