Wednesday, 18 March 2009

Home Sweet Home

Last night I ate fishes with my man Snout. We drank wine and watched a man on the television sew the back end of a goose onto the front end of a pig. Spatchcock the cat came and groomed Snout’s beard. We had the house to ourselves and we sprawled on the sofa and feasted.

Yesterday afternoon the police came to the scruffy-looking rental house over the road, four officers who all looked fresh from sixth-form college. They called for a skip and began carting out hydroponic kit, fans, lights and ventilation tubes. They filled their cars with yellow evidence boxes. In two hours it was all over. I have never even noticed who lives there. If only we had known, we could have staged an advance raid. It was very exciting, all the neighbours came out to watch.

There is always something interesting happening on this street. I am sure that the house with the green door is a brothel – I keep seeing brutal looking men and blasted, skinny women coming and going. The gangs of children keep things interesting, and guarantee a police intervention every few months. There is a little old man who wears a shell-suit and a bobble-hat and drives a Segway up and down the road. Then, of course, there is the cat with the human face, and once, when I was working in the next town over, I plunged myself into the frigid sinkhole of a Monday morning, the streets wet and the stars still staring, and, hearing something skittering behind me I turned and found myself being followed down the street by a semi-flaccid purple balloon. That one unnerved me, I can tell you. I had to spend my lunch-break hunting magpies and tying them together for luck.

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