Saturday Afternoon
It's a lovely Saturday afternoon. Gens walks up to the back door, sleeping mat in hand.
'Did Clare fix that, or are you just sick of seeing it in your living room?'
'Is this you? yes?'
'Yes.'
New scene. The green hand towel.
'I think Linda put it there. I am not making any claim to it.'
Three angels fly round the corner followed by a black succubus. They walk, tallest to shortest, as though the last could swell into the preceding.
Shared rear access.
No matter how big and ugly the vehicle pummelling down the road is it shall distract you from whatever it is you are doing. Needn't bother straightening that park out, wont be long.
I can hear the typing, but I cannot visually determine where it is being done. Slowly, carefully, delicately position a one tonne metal waste transport device into a 'no stopping' zone.
Convenient. Why else?
Look over here - I have given birth and still look hotter than your daughter.
Another vw, another p plate, the same problem.
Dog shouts. Person barks. Car horns and sirens - get the fuck out of my way. There is a lot of bitumen out there, but no room to move. City/Ultimo van hire.
A younger version of Van Gough sitting on a balcony, typing what he ought to be painting.