Huddle of girls almost squashed together, diligently working, not sullen, purposeful. Arms above their heads, holding the great plate, the saucer of good size from which later, water is due to rise. I want to get to know them. It might be possible. In a way I cannot properly describe, we are already friends. They are made of stone. That’s a fact. There are three of them. I hear three is a number that matters. No combination of numbers has yet to deliver me.