By Catherine Kerr
Finished with the clutches of secondary school, my best friend and I booked a trip to Amsterdam. We thought about the ear-less man for a whole day his brush strokes, a kaleidoscope of colour confined to canvas. Attempting to comprehend how anyone could create when their mind is destroyed, colourblind. In our lemon dresses we watch an old man outside the galleries paint like Monet himself, the picnicking families dotted around the gardens like spilled dolly-mixtures. We are all loitering in a bell jar of marijuana down narrow streets to find wine glowing lights bouncing off girls in rectangles of glass, a reflection of venus. The two of us jump up to a low roof top beside the squares of hay, like blocks of stars. Clinking our glasses till the moon greets the Dutch citizens beneath her.