Carping & Kicking or My shadow floodlit
What sort of place is this? The world through the eyes of a dissatisfied costomer.
Footloose in our dreams we may be yet the roots we put down in homes are as firm as those of lichen on nearby crags or heather on far moorland.
Snug behind warm walls and hot curtains, the house sniggers at the plight of the garden, cold and wind-whipped.
'Do come in from the cold,' urged the fireplace, and the frost-sorry bundle of firewood fell through the door shivering, only too grateful to see the empty grate waiting.
While her mistress strokes the furniture the skivvy polishes the cat, it is a ginger tom. A purring table, a creaking pet and hat-red in every cupboard and corner.
'Stand there until furrther orders.' Beds and wardrobes obey firm commands unto death and beyond.
NO CHAIRS ALLOWED IN HERE, and the cat still sat on the mat.
When all is over and done with, we are not policemen.
Murder strikes in the bedroom; 'kill that candle!'
When our backs are turned kennels know the lash of the whip and kitchens the bitter taste of crumbs.
Fourteen broken panes and eight slates missing, the house has. Not bad going for his time of day. (It is seven-thirty, the sun has been up for an hour and those few on the street are trying hard to be happy).
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