Saturday, 23 July 2016


slow slow

Ok, i need to get this down before i forget it.

Before i get to use it.

So… it’s going to be muddled.

Like the party.


First, there’s this woman – her name’s Bryane.

I don’t know how you spell her name ‘cos it’s not her real name.

Her passport says that her name is Francoise, and she was living in France.

She rides a motorbike, leather gear, looks cool.

She’s a Buddhist.

Ancient oaks grow next to her house but one winter the weight of heavy snow destroys them all.

She sees it as a sign to leave, so packs up and sells.

To Pierre.

Pierre is tall, elderly; a retired psychiatrist.

Retirement is a killer; he knows this so he’s bought the house.

Bryane, I‘ll spell it thus, tells him the work needed is inexhaustible.

He hopes it will keep him alive.

He never sits next to his wife.

She is at the party too.

There was a dream – last night after the party.

Somewhere in England – the south I think – there is a small building that serves as an occasional post office; it’s only open two days a week.

The building is stone, probably built in the 1920’s.

You can buy stamps here on Monday and Thursday.

You can post your letters at any time.

On the wall, and so difficult to see that someone has circled it with black biro and the word HERE, there is a small hole.

Hanging on the wall near the window where you can buy stamps, on the outside of the building, there is a strange piece of metal; part nail, part ribbon.

If you insert it into the hole, wiggle it until it almost disappears, then a hidden door will slide open in the stonework.

Inside are two bricks that you can move to reveal a large rusty key.

The rusty key can be used to open another door on the other side of the building.

It was made so that a local trader could leave his bible there after church on Sunday.

Back in the 1920’s.

Everything is still working and the post office staff will stop selling stamps in order to show you, if you ask.

End of notes.


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