Illiterarty.com Book reviews and blogs by Bridget

Swaying, shaking, bright lights tight skirt tall heels.

Each day, the architect strides into his penthouse office with two hundred and seventy degree panoramic views and a large oak display table.

The assembly look smart; boots that glisten, bayonettes that gleam, hats sitting regally as even their feathers stay firm in the gentle breeze.

If cleanliness and orderliness are next to Godliness I would already be in heaven. A place for everything and everything in it's place; my place is among dusted shelves, knick-knacks lined up with military precision, coffee tables that have never been within spitting distance of coffee.

Public policy, budget restrictions, pandering to the moral majority, funding eccentricities, a hodgepodge of papers, politicians, tight organisation, paternalism, ignorance, apathy.

The ceremony was lazy and golden, with boquets and bumblebees and a serene joy permeating the proceedings.

I keep my head down as I walk along, and it feels like I'm in a black and white movie, travelling lack-lustrely in the same direction as everyone else on the street as though we are a dull shoal of fish in blacks and greys.

Sitting at the oak table, staring down at his spotted red tie with his knees pressed together and his hands slippery. There's muttering around the room, the whispering of chair wheels and the creaking of stiff joints, a synthesis of old men, money and expensive suits.

I loosen my suspender and slide my device for devious journalists over my tweed skirt and onto my lap.

When I wake under a laughable cliche of starched white sheets for the same day in a row I realise my recovery is not complete by any stretch of the elastic nightgown although my operation is complete and a success.

Imitation vanilla essence;
gun powder, thingumies and lint.

She wears a deadpan expression, maybe sultry, maybe smoky, maybe wistful, maybe bored.

Chemical extraction in a filthy rental, smoke blue walls and shattered cold windows blacked out by sooty towels.

The ocean heaves lethargically, restless and sad with unbearable tight tears.

Run. Open the door, slam it shut, run.

The old man. In the corner, all the sure signs of a consumate smoker painted plain as fragile grey skin on his face, sipping a beer and looking hangdog and blank at the same time.

Behind the expensive oak paneling, a dazzle of diamonds taut with anticipation lay in wait.

The scent of eau de cologne wisps the air, cycling through the vents and ducts and secret places.