Today
we took all the furniture and unfixed objects from Boy’s room and the Spare
room and the home office room that is wedged under the stairwell. The Spare
room turned into Boy’s new room, Boy’s room became an office and under the
stairs a futon slouches under big flora and fairy lights, overlooked by a
wooden giraffe. Then we were tired and queued up for hot baths. The wood burner
has been full of fire all day, if we don’t have baths it will boil the water in
the pipes making them bubble and clank and the taps get dangerous. We have barely stepped out of the door into the switch on-switch off rain. Dog is convalescing a cut paw, curled in the armchair watching the furniture move about.
There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...
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