The HouseOne more lick of paint and that's this room done. Not the whole house, mind, but I'm getting there. I think I've done a pretty good job of it, if I do say so myself.Got to say I feel a lot better than I did a few months ago. Moving house is always stressful. Too much stuff, never a permanent marker to hand and not enough cardboard boxes! And you're constantly finding random objects you thought you'd thrown away years back. A broken toy. A doodle on a scrap of paper. A photo frame. Time to put away such childish things.It's nice to have somewhere I can relax. Somewhere to have long chats on the phone to Mum, invite the girls over, even just to have a bit of me time. Nothing like my old place. Not that I particularly like calling it that, my old place. The fresh feeling of somewhere new doesn't scrub away old ties, you know. Have a lot of good memories from back there. Had. Had a lot of plans for it too. Sketched out where the pond would go in the garden (un
Headed for a FallWhen people tell you that you're headed for a fall, it's usually a warning, a stop sign, and you can change your course, change your ways, but you don't because you don't want to listen.Not me. I'm headed for a fall. But I'm going down a one way road with signs everywhere. Cliff drop ahead. Falling rocks. And I'm trapped. I can't turn around, I can't even stop. I'm picking up speed, and fast. I'm gonna fly off that cliff in almighty style and have the waves rip me apart and Poseidon can sprinkle my limbs across the seven seas. Those rocks are gonna fall and my world will cave in around my ears, tumbling, thunderous boulders grinding me into dust. And when people come to pick up the pieces and clear the road, I'll be long gone, I'll be lost in a dark brooding abyss where no one can find you and you stopped being able to scream a long time ago. I'll never be the same again. Damn right I'm headed for a fall. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.
LinesThe clean lines of his spotless leather briefcase clashed against the creases of his slightly ruffled shirt, his equally ruffled hair, not quite faded into the dull, uniform brown of a London businessman. Designer spectacles framed his tired weary eyes, as he clutched his briefcase with more attended care than he gave to his faintly scuffed shoes, or the loosened navy tie that had only narrowly avoided the untidy treachery of rushed coffee and a leaking ballpoint.He walked with a disciplined gait, but with the type of wistfulness that was startling in a man so young. It wasn't characterised by indolence, and certainly not disinterest. It was the quiet disappointment of a man who had gone to the party but all the best people had already left. The sentimentality of his features broke the monotony of his appearance like a cream carnation amongst a bed of pure white roses. He was the kind of man whose head was always full of ideas on the bus to work, but never on the way home.