It was the best of...

Radio 6 drifting in and out, the radio temperamental kept Pink Floyd muzzled in the background.

And despite all the failings of everything in the home, radio, dry rotted floor boards, moth infestation, lamp too drunk on its hangings to balance a shade, Hoover too disobedient to open and shut without falling apart and emptying contents all over the freshly hoovered floor , walls creeping up with tide marks and damp, etc, It was, in fact the best of times. The rattled wooden door with its kicked in fixed cracks and falling off slats had not been pounded by a bailiff in months. The court summons and fines were not free flowing through it’s upside down mouth that trapped every piece of bad news proudly due to it’s brass neck opening being installed upside down. At some point the art of DIY would be learned but dodging debts had been the priority post, the house needed to be safe from repossessions in order to apply hopeful diy missions.

It was numbered 13, maybe this was the detonator of its fate.

In this moment in time the house was safe. With Coronavirus in the air, the home had become a sanctuary away from the demands of an unsparing world. People could be avoided and box sets binged. The view out to sea from the bedroom window was romantically smug morning and night. The pandemic was discharging liberties and empowering the elite to steam roller the poor. People were dying. The old were being exterminated in a way that was accepted by the people, the similarity to the start of the Second World War was indeed tormenting. But the house was a bubble of safety for now, a big hubba bubba attitude of teenage nonchalance against the world which was tearing lives apart. Deep down, underneath the cement she was trying to bury her head in, she knew her home was made of bricks and all in all it was just another brick in the wall.

Written by LOUISE O'CONNELL

Artwork by BRIAN GORMAN