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Sunday, 2 October 2016


My gaze falls on an old tumbler, a quarter full of water. Water gone stale, ignored, its value unremarked because in Scotland, it bubbles and tumbles, rises and roils, splashes and cascades and free falls from grey clouds passing overhead.  

Water, that refreshing resource so precious to life, longed for by those with parched lips and dry mouths, with unwashed clothes and unwashed hands, by those inhabiting dry and weary lands where it is craved.

Water-wealthy, our profligacy and waste mock the waterless weary.

Mhairi is booked and jabbed and packing her bag, which she will exchange here for her brother’s rucksack more suitable to sand and sand and more sand. Farewelling Tallulah’s feathers and hats for a week of aptly-named sweats, bunking in with a displaced refugee family in the western Sahara, she hopes to raise awareness of the plight of this forgotten people.

God bless you Mhairi, and all who contributed to the crowd-funding which has succeeded in sending her to the desert.  

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