Richard Butchins's Blog: Angels stand corrected... - Posts Tagged "tired"
The Fourth Extract..."The Room"
I posted the last extract on Sunday, probably not a good day to post. I suppose all the goodreads members must be in church. Here's another short extract from Pavement. There's a giveaway coming right up...
I have one room in the basement of a four-story Victorian terraced house. The house is divided into bedsits. Mine is about twelve feet by nine feet. It has a small wet-room attached with a toilet and shower inside.There is a two-ring electric stove on top of a cupboard in the corner; a small bed and a chair, table and chest of drawers, a rail in the alcove that serves as a wardrobe.
The room is dark, the basement and hallway are dark, painted white years ago and now dirty grey, drifting into brown along the architrave and across the ceiling. A single bare light bulb hangs from a twisted cord; the illumination it provides is fitful.The floor is carpeted with a stained beige rag of a carpet, threadbare in more places than it retains its weave.The wall has a host of disjointed letterboxes nailed to it. I don’t check mine, there is no point, there’s rarely anything inside.
The hallway is not dirty; it’s just worn out and tired. The stairs are the same; they are in the winter of their years and have seen better days and happier feet. I walk down the twisting staircase to the basement and the short hallway at the end of which is the door to my room, the room next door, and the adjacent door to the yard outside. The yard always feels dark even when the sun is shining.There’s something about this house that hoards the dark and cold, even on the sunniest, brightest, warmest August day. It’s as if the house were invisible and impermeable to any kind of future. It’s the perfect place for me.
I have one room in the basement of a four-story Victorian terraced house. The house is divided into bedsits. Mine is about twelve feet by nine feet. It has a small wet-room attached with a toilet and shower inside.There is a two-ring electric stove on top of a cupboard in the corner; a small bed and a chair, table and chest of drawers, a rail in the alcove that serves as a wardrobe.
The room is dark, the basement and hallway are dark, painted white years ago and now dirty grey, drifting into brown along the architrave and across the ceiling. A single bare light bulb hangs from a twisted cord; the illumination it provides is fitful.The floor is carpeted with a stained beige rag of a carpet, threadbare in more places than it retains its weave.The wall has a host of disjointed letterboxes nailed to it. I don’t check mine, there is no point, there’s rarely anything inside.
The hallway is not dirty; it’s just worn out and tired. The stairs are the same; they are in the winter of their years and have seen better days and happier feet. I walk down the twisting staircase to the basement and the short hallway at the end of which is the door to my room, the room next door, and the adjacent door to the yard outside. The yard always feels dark even when the sun is shining.There’s something about this house that hoards the dark and cold, even on the sunniest, brightest, warmest August day. It’s as if the house were invisible and impermeable to any kind of future. It’s the perfect place for me.
Angels stand corrected...
I have to have a blog...the site told me, my publisher told me, my publicist told me, and even my turkish barber told me, as he was administering the finest of close shaves. So I thought I had better
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