Sunday Silence

I always expected life to be a bit more grand. A nice characterful house and some land, recognition for my creative contribution. Space enough for pets and family, and enough income to support and maintain them.
Instead I find myself in the launderette, on an overcast Sunday, swearing at the machine that eats £5 and will not start, sending passive aggressive texts to the owners on numbers that I can’t be sure will reach them. I read my book, and lose myself in a world of fantasy. I listen to the beeping of the pedestrian crossing, the surf sound of passing traffic, the repetitive rumble of the dryers. 
I fold away dry things, walk back home along Sidwell Street, the odd slab of pavement wobbling and clunking underfoot, improvised weapons for a riot that will never come. 
At home, I put the electricity key in the meter, accepted, I will not freeze at least. I close the door behind me. The ticking of a lucky cats waving arm, the only sound in the Sunday silence. 


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