Untitled #1

Gravel stones wedged in the moulded soles of his trainers. Wonder
Woman's starry tiara and crossed-over cuffs casting an inverted
equilateral triangle on the bedroom floor, from the wall above. The
radiator on too hot, a couple of magazines and a book rest half-on the
bedside table, with its fingertrails in dust, and a bottle of Febreze
in the corner.

As Quentin Crisp said, after so long, a place just can't get any
dirtier.

Out the window, in a neighbouring garden, someone is singing. Not that
the 'gardens' (nor the singing) really live up to the name, eight
paving stones and a washing line, strung over a broken plastic
chair.

Some time long ago, long before the need to consider, they would be
there at grandma and grandad's on a day like today. At about this time
he would he would be filled from feeding half the day on the plentiful
snacks they provided. Biscuits, grapes, jam tarts, ice cream, anything
sweet enough they could find. All the opportunities for exploring silk
scarves, old medals, uniforms and high heeled shoes.

The badly lace-dressed decorative dolls in the bathroom, rouge, and a
pristine empty bedroom, maintained unchanged for twenty years.

Now, a worldwide television format on a wasted Sunday afternoon.