The stove is steaming. Well, the pan is. It was Wednesday and all was well, the garden was well grown and all the neighbours had handed in their tokens. We were in for a real treat. At some point this afternoon I had to remind Bryan to empty the dog. Oh how white the tulips were, oh what a lovely lunch, oh when will they arrive? Oh my head, my sore sore head, cease me and fly back to where you came from. Leave me on peace. It had been a shame about Mr. Japple – his poor wife and that dreadful bird of theirs. We shouldn’t dwell on the matter. Soon the festivities will begin, and how they will begin. What a treat, what an even indulgence, what a break. What is the time? I hope there’s enough juice to go around. Such thoughts had plagued my matter since last week, when Puma had first announced his intentions. The pets had been restless and my sleep pattern disassembled. I hadn’t cut Bryan’s hair. Oh bother. Still at least Michael Klenford and his sister Barbara were coming, and no one would notice. Our grapes come from the central valley, at the foot of the mountain range. The wine in medium boiled with concentrated flavours of ripe berry. Best served at cool room temperature (17-20 degrees) with beef, lamb or spicy spicy spicy spicy pasta paste paste pasta spicy psta dishes. Yes. Well. What on earth was happening next? Eventually they had to be consult in the court, or something of that sort. Maybe just a brief overview. Over all it had gone to plan, the dank fog in my vision was clearing and the basin was back to it’s shiny best. A thick white dust of sorts had assembled on the floor of the flower vase, like a sea bed of sand. The mangos had been talking again, “Ripen me in the fruit bowl” they had been heard to say, “for 4-5 days…”. If one were to stay up late into the night and remain still in the kitchen, as if not there, a blink would miss the occasional readjustment of the residents of the fruitbowl, as the blood pooled and a more comfortable position was required. Red were the carnations and red were the roses. Red were the curtains, but the walls were not red. The walls were the last remaining few, the brave and the bold who had struggled and struggled and struggled. But what for?