Well reader, what a week it’s been.
You’ve really been through the wringer and no mistake.
Inner city vampires.
A hint of witching and warlockery.
Cats who know far more than they’re letting on.
And of course,the joy of stuff.
But dear reader, I can understand if you’re feeling a little blue, a little under the weather, not totally tickety boo.
So, it’s time for an intermission, a taking stock, refuelling and gathering ourselves.
Because and make no mistake, if you’ve found it hard going, spare a thought for the poor writer, burrowing deep into what lies below on this so ordinary street.
Let’s take a break.
Watch the red velvet curtains drop elegantly over the screen, the lights come up and in a neat and nubile row, blondes stand, pert breasted, hair teased into elaborate confections of hair spray and Kirkby grips and each has a tray hanging from her neck, piled high with literate snacks.
Tiny cups of strong black coffee
Untipped French cigarettes.
And while you sip and nibble, blow perfect smoke rings and feel no urge at all to check your mobile device, let’s review what we have learnt.
Truth,the truth of this street is slippery, hard to get a handle on and as yet you have no trust in me and why after all should you?
what’s going on here you mutter, turn the page impatiently, looking for citation, footnotes, references that are readily, easily checkable.
Be patient, take my hand and learn to look beneath, learn to leap, remember Mrs Henderson and take that flying, lying jump into what happens next.
The curtains are about to go up on act 2, the blondes have glided away, leaving nothing but a hint of midnight in Paris and a half smoked Chesterfield.
So, what can we expect now?
More stories/storeys of ordinary people in this so ordinary street…
The siege at number 90.
A short history of parallel parking by the woman who lives at 47.
The cats will be back, of course.
The gardener who discovered a worm hole in the worlds smallest maze.
Decorating hints from number 19.