Tuesday, April 11, 2006

bump in the night

Driving around Kildare today was great - sun was shining, even the roadworks every half a mile didn't get me down. Later, I must have been wrecked, or reacting to the lack of TV, lack of soma put us in a coma, I digress.

After dinner at the table, how civilised, we staggered to bed lusting for kip. Three hours later, bump wallop bang.

The neighbours have moved in, I said, to his bleary eyes. 'I hope it won't always be this noisy' he said, standing at the window.

Don't let them see you, I said. My morbid fear of being caught staring out the window must come from that time twenty years ago when we knickknacked on the strange man five doors up, snotting ourselves with excitement, only to shriek when looking back we realised his shadow was looming in the porch.

'It's the collection' he said. And we remembered that the council are taking unwanted junk tomorrow. Our hacked sofa in the side passage had to be brought under cover of dark, and there was every chance some mice are residing there, so I was on tea duties.

Later though, I stood outside, beside the yawning springs of what was our sofa, watching him knock wheels off the broken computer chair, in a brave attempt to make it less appealing as a mode of conveyance to skangers. After the Jackson Pollack incident with the paint in the skip and the artistic skanger, we've become very community spirited.

A van drove slowly by, eyeing up the broken fridges, ancient beds and skeletal frames of what was once beloved furniture. I shivered, feeling a bit nightmareish, as though I hadn't woken properly from my sleep, as though the world had tilted slightly on it's axis or Salvador Dali was painting the scene.

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