BURN BABY, BURN

I am covered tiara-to-boots in fine powder, courtesy of a ‘dust angel’ ritual bestowed on first-timers, as well as from of an apocalyptic sandstorm raging around us. Squealing with mock terror, we dash to our rented RV – circa 1970, it is cramped and woefully illequipped – and slam the door on the hostile elements, grateful for a roof over our heads despite the wind howling through poorly sealed windows

“Home, sweet home,” I laugh, too close to hysteria for comfort, as I survey our not-so-palatial digs, already as bedraggled and filthy as we are.