The House of My Name

I’m living in a tiny wooden house, on a giant shelf, above another house. I access it via a wooden ladder. The house has my name on it. It’s at a bit of an angle, but I manage to get inside. It’s full of my stuff. Some local people who support me are helping me buy the place, and land to put it on. 
I chat with TV graphics people about the roundness of alien spaceship interiors, then they land my house like a spaceship on a hockey pitch. They leave. 
I go to the kitchen, and cook some food. The cooker is in a narrow street, and cars struggle to get past me. My dog moves the cooker for me. Knives and food drop onto the floor. I can’t stand to waste food. I carry on cooking. My granddaughter tells me to add some chicken stock, to keep the vegetables moist. I tell her to shut up or cook. She doesn’t want to cook. My son passes by, joking about how much free time I have. I tell him I’m working at one. He mentions that my jobs easy, like the crusades. I tell him to find out more about the crusades. 
An aunt is visiting. She has an old book about the Lyme Regis water orb, a bizarre naturally occurring phenomenon. It fascinates me. 
I sit on a sofa with a tramp, who, as we talk, gets cleaner, neater looking. He tells me about Scientology. He tells me to look for an eagle, an egg, a vegetable and a stone. They have some significance. My aunt told me something similar. He leaves. I’m alone in the house of my name. 


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