A Man's Home is his Castle

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I'm TERRIBLY sorry, but I cannot provide pictures of my life because I do not have a camera! What I can do, though, is write a thousand words- which will substitute the contents of one picture!

A blackened monolith towers above you. (Actually, it is more of a triolith- having three distinct protruding bits sticking up toward the usual grey, cloudy skies) People on the street outside are walking really fast in both directions- not because they need to get somewhere, just because they want to get out of the misty rain-like stuff falling all around. It is the most annoying kind of weather because it is so indecisive. In all fairness, it really should decide to either pelt down and give us all a great storm or just not rain at all. Plain old bitter cold would suffice! Eventually you get so irritated with arguing unrequitedly at the weather that you step inside the smoke-blackened gothic door in front of you. It doesn't strike you as being much different to the rest of the city, as everything here is gothic and smoke-blackened. Inside you are greeted by an eccentric New Zealander wearing a pair of extremely oversized fly-girl glasses who is preening her dreds carefully. Without using any more energy than is required to release a sarcastic bronchial sound, she activates another door which lets you - Get-Smart style - into a smoke-blackened, gothic hallway. This is your home. The Edinburgh equivalent of the Fremantle Arts Centre, only 3 times bigger, 200 years older and coated with a 5 cm layer of evil-looking black soot...not really.

Down the corridor to the left is a giant lounge- furnished with too many victorian settees, victorian candleabras, a victorian piano and a portrait of Queen Victoria (also victorian). A sign on the door states "Posh Lounge: No Riff Raff", however the riff raff are rife...

One of these particular riff-raff wears an old brown cardigan and plays a guitar quietly, while his riff-raff lady friend reads a Ben Elton book in the corner... you swiftly walk by, placing a cup of freshly-made tea before them both, and head back out toward the front door. You are late for your new job (being in a Victorian Brewery a half hour walk away) and cannot be bothered writing any more...

that, and the fact that you are writing in the 2nd person... which can be disconcerting for your sense of self...

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Comments

[Faasha]

Good start to a novel
Despite the lack of pictures Chaz it's a fine bit of writing. It would be a wonderful record of life on the road if you could employ this quality of description. Brysonesque with the young person touch. At school so must go . Will writes in more detail later Lots of love Dad

[JB]

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