Strange men with sticks parade down my street. There is one man recycling a
sign - ‘live boxing shown here’ - a sign surely stolen from the pub down the
road, he’s riding it now like a child’s wooden horse. Beside me my neighbour
claims that he’s not a moron, ‘I’m not a moron’, he screams at his silent wife. I
move away from that wall. This is last Spring.
Another man arises at twenty minutes past ten and walks down the street
in a robe and black socks. He is holding a colander and a pan burned straight
through and I think surely this man is a recycler too. Only, he walks proudly
past our large council-tax drums and I wonder will this man now turn round the
corner? To the house of the hoarder with the newspapers stacked and the
hunting knife pressed against the angry outdoors? A forgotten weapon in a
forgotten flat covered in black and white days that are long-ago passed. He
comes back empty handed and sets his old eyes on me, the young foreign
neighbour, and laughs.
I wake up again at half twelve to the whistle of a worker replacing the
windows of our old neighbour’s flat. I must’ve missed the cock’s crow from
the Urban Farm Project, but that scaffolding makes much more sense than a
coop. I occasionally buy food from MacPhearson’s Fishmonger, located across
from the Farm’s petting zoo. Harry the Otter is Beast of the Week on account of
his rodential charm and charisma. I hope one day that I will be picked, as I
trudge by hungover with some cod in my pocket.
I’d season my fish with fresh herbs if we had them, but the mould always
murders our thyme. Buying plants every month from the Lidl in Slateford, I’ve
come to terms with random mortality. ‘You can’t take it with you’, I whisper to
basil as I pull the last edible leaves from its corpse. I’d complain to my landlord
but I’d rather not meet him. We’re far better off staying quiet and damp. Burnt-
bottom pan is now the only man left with mouldly ould windows like ours. He
lives in a basement and, strangely enough, his blinds look all black and burnt
up. I wonder does his landlord even know he’s still there? What a dream it
would be to be completely forgotten, left alone to exist in a world without rent.
Somebody has stolen a cat. There are signs all around making clear it’s
not missing. There is, definitively, a culprit at large.
sign - ‘live boxing shown here’ - a sign surely stolen from the pub down the
road, he’s riding it now like a child’s wooden horse. Beside me my neighbour
claims that he’s not a moron, ‘I’m not a moron’, he screams at his silent wife. I
move away from that wall. This is last Spring.
Another man arises at twenty minutes past ten and walks down the street
in a robe and black socks. He is holding a colander and a pan burned straight
through and I think surely this man is a recycler too. Only, he walks proudly
past our large council-tax drums and I wonder will this man now turn round the
corner? To the house of the hoarder with the newspapers stacked and the
hunting knife pressed against the angry outdoors? A forgotten weapon in a
forgotten flat covered in black and white days that are long-ago passed. He
comes back empty handed and sets his old eyes on me, the young foreign
neighbour, and laughs.
I wake up again at half twelve to the whistle of a worker replacing the
windows of our old neighbour’s flat. I must’ve missed the cock’s crow from
the Urban Farm Project, but that scaffolding makes much more sense than a
coop. I occasionally buy food from MacPhearson’s Fishmonger, located across
from the Farm’s petting zoo. Harry the Otter is Beast of the Week on account of
his rodential charm and charisma. I hope one day that I will be picked, as I
trudge by hungover with some cod in my pocket.
I’d season my fish with fresh herbs if we had them, but the mould always
murders our thyme. Buying plants every month from the Lidl in Slateford, I’ve
come to terms with random mortality. ‘You can’t take it with you’, I whisper to
basil as I pull the last edible leaves from its corpse. I’d complain to my landlord
but I’d rather not meet him. We’re far better off staying quiet and damp. Burnt-
bottom pan is now the only man left with mouldly ould windows like ours. He
lives in a basement and, strangely enough, his blinds look all black and burnt
up. I wonder does his landlord even know he’s still there? What a dream it
would be to be completely forgotten, left alone to exist in a world without rent.
Somebody has stolen a cat. There are signs all around making clear it’s
not missing. There is, definitively, a culprit at large.
‘To the owners of 23/8 Wheatfield Place, a police report has been made
against you both for theft, for stealing my 17-year-old Tortoise-shell cat
[sic]. 6000 days she has been with me, and you cowardly shits just stole
her. You will return her via the police/PDSA, or by force. You are
immoral, despicable cowards, and you will be very sorry for your
contemptible actions’.
I wonder is there a conspiracy down the road at the farm, lord knows a tough
green-shelled feline would make a fine Weekly Beast, after all.
It’s Summer now and I walk home at night, skipping past vomit and
avoiding drunk fighters. I walk up to my flat to find a small hunched-down
figure, vibrating terribly in front of my door. Surely somebody wasted who’s
given up walking, I check to see if they’re lost. ‘No’, they replied sober, with
tears in their eyes, and I found I’d just met my first neighbour. ‘Have you a
cigarette, please?’, ‘No’, I replied, wishing I had but checking, instead, that she
still had her keys. Upstairs we waited for thirty five minutes until we heard the
door nextdoor shut. In the morning I saw a kestrel eating a sparrow, and that
was the end of the Summer.
In Autumn I saw burnt-bottom pan with a woman at night and wondered
what kind of romance have we got here? And how many years has this love-
affair lasted? The two of them courting across cobblestones, incognito and
secret, could this be forbidden and passionate love? No, that’s not it, because
just two minutes later they’re screaming at opposite ends of our street. He’s
kicked out his love at half two in the morning, and together they squabble like
people in plays. An argument, maybe, that’s fifty years old, but no romance to
speak of, no none of that here. He smiles as he catches my eye walking past, and
she stops for a bow and to see if she's won. By the time I’m upstairs in my flat
they’ve gone in. A dispute settled quickly, before an encore tomorrow.
The Winter came late but now its dark before four and our mould is much
worse. A great soaking patch claws its way from our window towards both of us
lying, wrapped up, in bed. Silent wife and her moron have moved and there’s no
longer screaming, perhaps the lost cat has moved in nextdoor. It’s spacious and
vacant, with plenty of mice. We’ve got one too, but we’ve not named him yet.
He'll be much harder to kill with a name. ‘Cream cracker crumbs can’t save you
now’, I’ll mutter as I lower the casket of our poor unnamed soldier - because it’s
true he’s probably more mice than one mouse.
To brighten the darkness we bought cheap window lights and after only
one week, lo and behold, almost all of the flats have bright shining windows. If I could see through his blinds, I’d be sure even burnt-bottom pan has a nice fire roaring. A competition, maybe, but not so cynical as that. A community, bollox, not much of that either. Just staying bright through the darkness, mice, cats, otters and all. Together we are worms in the heart of a horse.
against you both for theft, for stealing my 17-year-old Tortoise-shell cat
[sic]. 6000 days she has been with me, and you cowardly shits just stole
her. You will return her via the police/PDSA, or by force. You are
immoral, despicable cowards, and you will be very sorry for your
contemptible actions’.
I wonder is there a conspiracy down the road at the farm, lord knows a tough
green-shelled feline would make a fine Weekly Beast, after all.
It’s Summer now and I walk home at night, skipping past vomit and
avoiding drunk fighters. I walk up to my flat to find a small hunched-down
figure, vibrating terribly in front of my door. Surely somebody wasted who’s
given up walking, I check to see if they’re lost. ‘No’, they replied sober, with
tears in their eyes, and I found I’d just met my first neighbour. ‘Have you a
cigarette, please?’, ‘No’, I replied, wishing I had but checking, instead, that she
still had her keys. Upstairs we waited for thirty five minutes until we heard the
door nextdoor shut. In the morning I saw a kestrel eating a sparrow, and that
was the end of the Summer.
In Autumn I saw burnt-bottom pan with a woman at night and wondered
what kind of romance have we got here? And how many years has this love-
affair lasted? The two of them courting across cobblestones, incognito and
secret, could this be forbidden and passionate love? No, that’s not it, because
just two minutes later they’re screaming at opposite ends of our street. He’s
kicked out his love at half two in the morning, and together they squabble like
people in plays. An argument, maybe, that’s fifty years old, but no romance to
speak of, no none of that here. He smiles as he catches my eye walking past, and
she stops for a bow and to see if she's won. By the time I’m upstairs in my flat
they’ve gone in. A dispute settled quickly, before an encore tomorrow.
The Winter came late but now its dark before four and our mould is much
worse. A great soaking patch claws its way from our window towards both of us
lying, wrapped up, in bed. Silent wife and her moron have moved and there’s no
longer screaming, perhaps the lost cat has moved in nextdoor. It’s spacious and
vacant, with plenty of mice. We’ve got one too, but we’ve not named him yet.
He'll be much harder to kill with a name. ‘Cream cracker crumbs can’t save you
now’, I’ll mutter as I lower the casket of our poor unnamed soldier - because it’s
true he’s probably more mice than one mouse.
To brighten the darkness we bought cheap window lights and after only
one week, lo and behold, almost all of the flats have bright shining windows. If I could see through his blinds, I’d be sure even burnt-bottom pan has a nice fire roaring. A competition, maybe, but not so cynical as that. A community, bollox, not much of that either. Just staying bright through the darkness, mice, cats, otters and all. Together we are worms in the heart of a horse.
