A tale of a house near the city, and an old man’s prostate.

A JOB TO DREAM

I don’t have a dream job, I have a job to dream. If you were me in my house you’d know exactly what I mean. Blue lights flashing, sirens sounding up and down the road. Up and down, up and down, I think I need a commode

Is that a burglar I hear, is my wife snoring ? Or is it workmen across the road holes for new signs. . . . .boring ? The security lights come on again, is it badger or fox. Or is it really a burglar come to pick the locks

Wind is howling, massive trees swaying, are they going to come in ? What’s that banging like a drum ? man coming down steps with bin. Someone’s stolen a car, set it on fire in the woods. Vehicle wheels in the pot holes vans and heavy goods.

Someone shouting, swear words spouting effing this and that, Then that screeching, an out of tune violin or next door neighbours cat ? Now I need the loo again, Im sick of getting up, think I’ll go and make myself some Horlick’s in a cup.

I fall asleep at five am, just before the bin men come, I need the loo again, but can’t because my legs gone numb. When it’s Six O clock that beautiful dawn chorus, then the delivery man banging on the door he’s got a parcel for us 

This feng shui thing is so strange, It wouldn’t matter how the furniture I arrange. The wind it blows the wrong way, the stream also I have found. Or is it our house is built on an ancient burial ground.

All words Meadowhead Bard.