The first thing they burned was the maps.

Gone.

No more maps.

And people tried to remember them. And scribble them down on pages and on walls and on floors. But they burned those too. And we kept trying. And scribbling them on the soles of our shoes. And under the wallpaper. And in the stones of the forest floor and in the stitches of our linens. Jean Maebie had Sweden tattooed on the inside of her cheek. They found her and they cut off both sides and cooked them and ate them with an egg and some poor quality mayonnaise. “Hellmanns, at least?” she’d said. I think. Hard to understand. She didn’t have any cheeks.  I guess Hellmann’s must have been the good one.

And so our mothers told us with words, “because you can’t burn words”. And they said, “The M25 goes all the way round London, like a snake encircling its prey, ready to watch it choke.” And from generation to generation they would tell us the stories of where things are and where things were, and the truth would warp and melt. I guess we could go and check. But we can’t be bothered.