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At The End Contrary to local legend, the house was not at all likely to collapse once the scaffolding was removed. And I was about to prove that very point in front of the crowd that had started to gather before I was even half way up the ladder. A handful of drinkers had spilled out of the bar, into the car park of The Royal Archer, close neighbours wandered curiously down the hill, and various other passers-by, who sensing something was afoot had stopped on the wasteland opposite the house wanting, in some small way, to be a part of it. |
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The Start of it
The whispers floated in the sea air, alongside autumn leaves, birdsong and the aroma of roasting meat. They shook the pram and whistled around the sides of the house until they found my grandmother, bent double over the brassicas, seeking solace as she always did now, in the latter part of the afternoon, in manual labour and the cultivation of her neat little vegetable garden. |
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The Dukes spurs What I liked most was the way in which the new place would wobble so as I negotiated its length. Hopping and bopping, jumping and bumping, it just couldn't sit still. The crackling music from the transistor sound tracked our movements. It was a crazy dance, an unlikely duo. And all the while my mother sat watching; watching and waiting. My journey was a brief one, the work of a moment; lounge kitchen bedroom and turn, bedroom kitchen lounge and turn. There wasn't a hope that I could ever lose myself here, there really was nowhere to hide. Pete Murray spoke with gentle reassurance and the music played on. |
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Short stories Steve basis his journeys around the house at Number 9. He will explore various themes and ideas through this disapline. |