We shut the door as the last ones left, turned and faced inside. Across the hallway, criss- crossing in every direction were trails of muddy boot prints. Walking into the kitchen, every surface was littered with their mess. Crumpled packets left strewn where they’d been emptied, a pile of broken biscuits, empty cups and mugs, scummy and stained and on the floor, floating in a puddles of brown water, the trampled remains of food.
We began to clear up and she said, ‘ Maybe we should start going to church’. I didn’t answer. I thought of the routine commitment and Sunday school as a child, collecting stamps illustrating bible stories and sticking them in an album, but this wasn't reward enough and I soon stopped going. Before I could reply the front door opened and in burst a gang of men, dressed in t-shirts and shorts. They were carrying an electric barbecue and other unidentified equipment. They plugged the barbecue into the hall socket and hoisting themselves up, began opening the skylight that lead onto the roof. I confronted their leader, a squat surly man with black greasy hair sticking to his oily sweating forehead. ‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ I said my voice rising in anger. ‘You can’t just barge in here unannounced’. His helpers looked away, shifty and embarrassed by the confrontation. ‘I’m the building manager’, he said.
I took a deep breath to reply. Then I woke up. Aren’t dreams strange?
No Comments/Trackbacks for this post yet...