After a few months of relative peace and harmony, the magma in my internal Vesuvius started bubbling and rumbling beneath the surface. The temperature grew, the pressure raised. The safety valves started to creak. The eruption could not be far away. There were minor tremors last night as I battled through the piles of shit blocking every putative footstep. No fucker had bothered to do the washing up which piled high ino the sink.
Once agin I started to think about the shit we live in. When I start thinking like this the stuff beneath start sto get molten, things start to move. Things are bad in my bit of the house, and that’s by far the best.
I look down the side of the bed. There are about five dis shevelled, crumpled red tops, two or three handkerchief, three pairs of half soiled women’s underpants. A collection of empty document holders in various states of decay. Handfuls of dust, a paper crown, half a dozen never played never to be played CDs which would have any listener fluent in half a dozen languages within a week. A sanitary towel (mercifully unused), a hot water bottle cover long since divorced form it’s partner.
The room itself is cool. It was done bya carpenter called Rob who spent a week turning it from a very old and dusty bar into a rather cool, very low ceilinged, long thin bedroom. He put trendy shutters in the recessed windows, and built some great cupboards the length of the room which looked neat and practical.
Then we moved in.
Rob’s work was good, and most of it has survived us intact. One shutter now hangs from it’s hinge, and there is a small but annoying crack in the plasterwork. Apart from that, for this house it is A1. Oh, there is the light switch which kind of fizzes every time you touch it. But generally, despite all our efforts, the room is cool. TBC
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