The gas man called. He said he’d been standing at the door for hours, but I didn’t know. How could I know?
We’d just had the new lamps fitted. We liked them. They glow beautifully and there’s that odour, somehow it combines nostalgia with a whiff of progress. But one of the lamps was hissing and not igniting. I wrote to the gas company but received no reply. Instead they sent the gas man. He’d knocked he said, but when you’re composed entirely of gas, knocking is difficult and sometimes friction can lead to sudden combustion. He tried sneaking under the door, he admitted, but half way through he realised he might split in two.
The pigs like the smell of the gas too. Perhaps they think its edible. They eat almost everything. George ate half a cushion yesterday and earlier this morning Henry devoured one of my faux rattlesnake-skin trainers. The ducks are oblivious to smell but despise noise, especially the flugelhorn. The goat is a malevolent creature and its thoughts are not worthy of consideration.
We keep upstairs on the electricity supply, but only for the molecular drive. This is the third one we’ve had since we moved in and so far, touch wood, it hasn’t let us down. Gabriella’s transformation into a cloud of chrysanthemum petals for her graduation party was astonishing, although she said some of the other student transformations were outrageous. One graduate had used what must have been one of the higher end molecular drives to reassemble himself into a continuously evolving fire demon, his head pushed out into a snout, like a crocodile, then folding back to create huge ears, his eyes bulbous, then tiny, brilliant and blue one moment, fiery red the next. Unfortunately his license was not up to date and advertising broke in about an hour before the end of the party. His torso became a bottle of McColl’s Watermelon Soda, his head a pulsating jar of a low quality, high sugar brand of peanut butter.
This afternoon I need to get in touch with the stone mason. The garden wall has a crack in it, and it’s in danger of toppling into next door’s sauna. Every day something needs attending to. The last time the stone mason came he was unable to initiate his gravity inhibitor and by the time he got here his bicycle had two buckled wheels.
And while the Moon continues to promote the escapism of Holman’s Dream Hotel, I don’t see how a younger generation will ever cope with the demands of domestic life. The local magistrate has increased tithes and even a cup of third grade sencha at the tea house is now almost twenty five per cent more expensive than this time last year, but often served without any genuine reverence for the tea bowl.
This evening John is returning from his trip to the Seventh Lair of the Bewildered Rabbit. He loves it there, says he prefers it to the Fifth Lair, which most well balanced people agree is the most exciting. I have an illuminated manuscript to finish, and then will slaughter the goat in preparation for the weekend. He looks at me with those demonic eyes and I know the devil resides in him. Death will release his soul and then it will be held in one of the jars in the Cupboard of Essences, ready for release on the Great Day of Rejuvenation when all things return to the beginning of the journey of life, which for most of us is a routine of duties, obligations and errands, an endless succession of dreary chores.