Friday, July the 23rd, 2004

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Then the Boisterous Man

First there was a flask of tea to be screwed shut, and cloud-patterns to be analysed, with the aid of diagrams drawn on clear plastic, from a pile kept in a locker by the boiler room, which was always locked, even on Thursdays, when inspectors came, three of them, driving up in a sort of van that looked like it had been built behind the Iron Curtain during the 1950s but was, remarkably, almost brand new, as you could learn if you took a close look at it once it had been parked, rather sloppily, next to that incredible cedar tree on the branches of which dozens upon dozens of birds perched, let us not catalogue the birds, there is not time enough for that, except to remark that the tree was innocent of owls, and always had been, for reasons known only to ornithologists, particularly the resident ornithologist, that insouciant man who always wore velvet, there was talk that his only inheritance when his parents perished in a funicular railway accident in some distant mountain range or other was a bolt of mauve crushed velvet, but I don't know the truth of that, I don't know the truth of anything, I don't even know what time it is, I haven't slept for a week, I lie awake all night terrified of my familiar, the tiny invisible goblin that scampers around my room and gnaws at the curtains and the wainscot. First there was a flask of tea to be screwed shut, and then the boisterous man went paddling in a fresh puddle, having kicked off his big boots and hung his socks on a fence. Well, I was that boisterous man. I was a happy splasher, until my invisible goblin came to stay.