The copywriter’s art

Dazzling sun is back. Coming out of the lane this morning, 8am but the light fresh and virtuous as if it were 6am with all the day ahead. Daddy and daughter shadows on the tarmac, papercut sharp. N makes you stamp on her shadow fingers. Good and hard. She yelps and returns the favour.

At the first sight of the wooded hills, inner gasp of satisfaction. The air’s clear but an invisible film of the faintest gauze screens the distant trees, just a hint of mist, luminous under morning blue.

It’s force of habit. Sunny mornings spark in you a reflex burst of anticipation. A tiny spray of dopamines carrying news of this day’s endless and extraordinary potential. Probably a function of having grown up in Northern Europe. Surely redundant for life on a sub-tropical island where almost every day begins this way. 

There may be intense sunshine for a stretch, then brutal rain. Sunshine-rain / Rain-sunshine. No big deal. And no interminable months of overcast skies and desultory drizzle weighing down the spirit.

No matter. Your spirits boosted yet again by the sun, then boosted even more by the giant hoarding overlooking the McDonald’s intersection. A Chinese advert for the “More Hair House” featuring one line of masterful English: Medical Wigs from Confident Reflections. You can’t see that, high up on its fifth-storey vantage point, without feeling a jolt of appreciation for the copywriter’s art — and a peculiar surge of confidence too. 

 

“Medical Wigs

From Confident Reflections.”

Poetry

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