everything in the sky

They kicked the shit out of our front door. I mean they really went to town. They had to, given the fact it was double-locked and it is (or was) pretty damn thick. It’s now pretty splintered up.
I’ve had to take the day off work to get a new door fixed. I’m sitting here alone in the flat, our front door splintered all to hell, and I’m quietly reading in our lounge.
I hear someone approach our front door. They pause, and then put a letter through the letterbox in our very broken, slightly ajar door.
The postman.
He doesn’t stick to around to see if a burglary is happening, whether anyone’s hurt, or even call out to see if anyone’s home. He just drops his letter through the broken, ajar door and leaves.
It’s really hard to believe in people sometimes.

I’m ‘secretdark’. So, yeah.

She was one of the many urgent, dirty characters who seem to come out in the summertime in west-London. Whether she was one of the area’s many drug-addicts or simply mentally ill, it didn’t matter: she was in the line in front of me at our local grocery and she was taking ages. She’d tried to leave without paying, seemingly absent-mindedly, had accused the server of racism, and was now trying to pay with a movie-rental card. Having eventually organized payment (a cheque), she decided to leave. Without her groceries. As the person next in line in the queue, I was silently designated diplomat to this weird, angry, human island.
“Uh, excuse me. Excuse me, ma’am, you’ve forgotten your stuff.”
“Huh,” she grunted, still moving toward the doors.
I moved forward to get her her bag. “You’ve forgotten your… pineapples?”
Her groceries were pineapples. Just pineapples. 3 bags of them.
“Huh.”
She took them angrily and, I like to think, she went home. Along the way, I guess, she screamed at some birds. She flashed her breasts at a flowerpot. She voted Conservative. She did all the bizarre things the deranged seem to do to fill their day.
Eventually, I like to believe, she got back to her small apartment. She pulled a key from some pocket in her duffel coat, unlocked her front door and headed into her kitchen. Constantly muttering, she took her pineapples, cradled in her arms, into her lounge. She climbed the step-ladder there and placed her precious cargo carefully (oh so carefully) on top of the immense, towering pile of pineapples sat waiting for her.
“… good,” she muttered. “Good.”
Then she descended, sat down in her rocking chair and, quiet and angry, she simply stared at them.
She just sat and stared at her beautiful, yellow children.

No, no, you’re just holding the phone wrong.
Hold it higher.
Higher.
That’s it. Keep that grip firm.
Hmmm, now spread your fingers. Feels good, doesn’t it? The new glass.
Feels real good.
You’ve been a bad consumer, haven’t you.
Now dance for daddy. Dance for Daddy Jobs.