There’s a going on at the edge of the garden, on an area of grass before the corner of the drive. It’s at the place where bonfires have been built by the gas house, quite brambly.

There’s a sense of drama, heralded by know all’s and yet come at by decay. It evolves initially from men doing maintenance work into Shakespearean warming up, and as a last resort somebody has lost their spectacles and everyone must come and find them.

There are black men and men wearing orange wtf.

If someone flips your dick into granite by handing you a gun and an ultimatum, the real call is to get back from it all with soup and a sandwich.

The side door is glass with four panes from the waist up. A man in a fedora isn’t likely to have to win you over, for at any rate his hat did.

There is somebody out there trying to keep their head on. They are being aimed at by a range of disputes over holding nerves. Shaking are you saving the ground, it’s mine and I’ve taken pushchairs down it.

10 years ago

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