I turn the key and with a creek the door slowly opens. The flat that once welcomed after work is an eerie wasteland of emotions. Something is missing, but I haven't been burgled. Today I didn't need a daily anecdote, such as the photocopier jam. The post skidded across the floor as I stepped in. Someone usually lifts the post and places it thoughtfully on my bed, or even more knowingly, on my part of the sofa.
Nachy, my flatmate, is away home for a week. A sudden fear clouded my thoughts. I need someone around, and then it hit me... I will make my flatmate. Time is short so I can't make it talk or do anything. That is not important, but as long as I sit on my sofa and can see something resembling Nachy in the corner of my eye I might make it through the week without heroin.
I begin to move him about when I leave the room. Before I know it this is part of my life and I love him. Then I hear a key turn in the door and Nachy is soon undressing his work trousers from my creation and I go to bed confused and in tears again. The photocopier jam was delicious by the way.
I would like to see some sort of marionette perfomance, a wee jig to some hard house perhaps?
ReplyDelete