So, here it starts. The blank page beckons - uninviting yet full of potential. To fill with purple prose, taut poetry or a shopping list? To send others to sleep, perchance to dream?
My neighbour across the road buys her own flowers at the supermarket and carries in all the bags of shopping. She has mastered the art of opening doors with her right elbow despite having a husband and a grown up son. Their house is on the market for some reason despite only having moved in a couple of years ago. The realtor's photos show a conservatory at the rear with an easel set up with some half-finished painting and I imagine that she is the artist but of course I do not know. I see more of their animals than I see of them. We all work in our various jobs which necessitate us leaving early and arriving home late. We come and go on different schedules and seldom speak. The two dogs however take a real interest in the street and stand at an upstairs window looking out at any activity. The tails wag in front of sheer curtains and at the times one of the family is due to return they become more animated, ears cocked, eyes focused waiting to bound down the stairs in loyal welcome.
They seem mismatched almost, the couple. The father and son are both extraordinarily tall and thin. The father is so tall that he stoops slightly to enter the house by the front door. These old houses were not built for modern man.She on the other hand resembles a doll. She stands no more than five foot and her skin is unblemished and unwrinkled, her hair still long. I wonder if she is the trophy wife, the newby. As she buys her own flowers at the supermarket though, I think not.
My neighbour across the road buys her own flowers at the supermarket and carries in all the bags of shopping. She has mastered the art of opening doors with her right elbow despite having a husband and a grown up son. Their house is on the market for some reason despite only having moved in a couple of years ago. The realtor's photos show a conservatory at the rear with an easel set up with some half-finished painting and I imagine that she is the artist but of course I do not know. I see more of their animals than I see of them. We all work in our various jobs which necessitate us leaving early and arriving home late. We come and go on different schedules and seldom speak. The two dogs however take a real interest in the street and stand at an upstairs window looking out at any activity. The tails wag in front of sheer curtains and at the times one of the family is due to return they become more animated, ears cocked, eyes focused waiting to bound down the stairs in loyal welcome.
They seem mismatched almost, the couple. The father and son are both extraordinarily tall and thin. The father is so tall that he stoops slightly to enter the house by the front door. These old houses were not built for modern man.She on the other hand resembles a doll. She stands no more than five foot and her skin is unblemished and unwrinkled, her hair still long. I wonder if she is the trophy wife, the newby. As she buys her own flowers at the supermarket though, I think not.
