Artex walls
I have my walls. My own walls. They are speckled, artex textured, slowly accumulating images. The window is covered with a curtain, pale leaves on navy blue shutting the world out, just the sound of rain from the open window beyond. The fan slowly hums. A small ikea lamp and a vanilla candle give the colour and smell of custard (creme anglais). The personality bends the space. The sounds are jazz.
Beyond the room root beer sits in the fridge. Parmesan. An Aubergine. Recipes and possibilities skid into each other.
In the shelter cats sleep, content with the food left out for them. Black and white on his favourite chair, lazily gazing at those who might disturb him. The cats have no names yet; they will, their personalities are becoming clear.
Past the curtain a small taoist shrine, incense drifting towards me, neighbour’s ancestors being venerated.
