OUR origins are explained by folk of simple persuasions who have their roots in primitivism and ignorance. Ignorance blanched with religion and with an unending fear of diminishing self-worth.
They explain it all without explanation
They view life very differently …

 

One cool day in late Autumn – there had been a constant fall of light rain from the canopy all afternoon … the type of light rain,as Esther might say,that wets you through.

Burnt had had a falling out with his landlady … made a return visit to his grand-aunt Cecelia Button-Sewell’s Villa

It was boarded-up …. silent but for the creaking of age

Burnt went round the back … as he had been told to do back in his childhood

The old black timbered back-door lay slightly ajar and with a modicum of shoulder pressure was able to

open it sufficiently to go in

The passageway was haunt and gaunt; cold and damp

He was in what appeared to be the scullery as there was an old Belfast sink propped against the wall; broken  and at a strange angle  to the flaking  plaster, were two giant taps, proud of the wall.

Absolutely nothing else in the room .. not even the door. Burnt walked out into the hall …no more then a yard wide  with a tall narrow ceiling with a cornice off centre and a blackened bare bulb dangling from it

He turned to the staircase and tested the first step It appeared to hold his weight.
He climbed the steep narrow creaky stairs and reached the first landing
Two doors in front of him and a third further up three more steps to his right
He tried the door handle and it opened into a wide room with heavy curtains draped to the dust laden floor
He looked around …a double bed a sylvester chair at the foot and a broad oak wood wardrobe
Looking down Burnt noticed a thick paged hard backed Book propping up the left front corner of his aunt’s Edwardian wardrobe
Burnt had discovered a very rare book

Intermission

He replaced it with a 250 ml empty tin of white emulsion which had been sitting on the mantle piece
and taking the book over to the old bed sat down and dusted the cover – The title was embossed in gold flake and read ” The Salon = a Hair-raising Tale

Burnt

I am an Amateur Gynaecologist with a love of Maidenhair Ferns and a fondness for interpreting Vermeer's Paintings as Metaphors ...

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