How much do we conceal? If our minds were laid bare, like the wares the old lady lays on the makeshift table at a jumble sale, how many people would stand over them? How many would price them up and haggle for a piece? How many would pick up your mind and gaze at it in the glare of the cold sunshine, up in the air, held above their head, a puzzled look upon their face as they struggle to understand what it is exactly that they are holding. A cup? A statue? A radio? Is it a vase? Ornate and quaint and chipped. There is a crack in the rim. What is the colour? Topaz. No, aquamarine. Well actually, I would have called it azure-blue but each to their own. Who wants an azure mind that is looked at before an azure sky? 

Let me into your wares. Lay them neatly on a table for me. Let me haggle for the price of a thought and I will go away happy with my purchase. A content little piggy with an even more content little blue vase in my bag. 

Look how dirty that centre-piece is. Look how damaged we all are. Covered in dust and cobwebs. We are turning yellow with age like a cigarette stained wall. There is grease dripping down your neck - we are revolting. I could never buy that. Clean it up first. Make it new and white and dazzling. But you cannot freshen used goods. Standing in a line, arranged in an orderly fashion - it makes it easier for others to peer at us from underneath their bushy heye-brows.

We are all as naked as the one-armed, one-legged doll Amy threw away that day.