the little fella

'Screwfix' apocalypse. These chunky odes for screwed up people are in abundance today; some homes even getting 2: mail the size of a brick jammed through their letterbox, taking the draught excluder with it, how ironic. if that weren't enough to drag around the village, 'saga' mags to boot...and here's me in the village of the damned, the same decrepit faces trundling round the village every day, zimmer frame in hand(s)...grinding a rut in the pavement. Then I see the cat, dangling halfway out of the front bay window.

fiery globe

"you won't get any answer there mate. Half of 'em are all fucking dead, they just haven't bothered to bury 'em yet." With that the mystery (council worker? cat burglar?) man produces a bunch of keys and lets me in the side door to the impenetrable flats. Shit, I was hoping for a no access scenario, take some mail back. I've spent an age buzzing my way through the many delightful cominations of flat numbers (1a, 1b, 1c...up to 11d) trying to get into these Godforsaken places...'trade' button? Don't make me laugh. They haven't worked for years, if ever. They may as well have put 'burglar' buttons on.