I open a packet of polo mints at my desk. The top polo is broken into shards, and it falls like fragments of a milk tooth. The pieces are irregular, curved, sharp, and strangely beautiful. They are absolutely white - fragments of purity - tiny fragile truths.
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I cannot think of polo mints without remembering the (possibly apochryphal) take of Irish workmen who were laying a tarmac drive and when the owner asked for white chippings they scattered broken polos thereon.
Thats a great story, Sandra. I imagine the owner of the drive wasn't quite satisfied with the ingenuity of the workmen!
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