By Emily Ingle, with commentary from Ruth Jones
The sofa is growing an antler. I hoped it was a coin or a lost hair slide – even the springs going – but when the tip split through the velvet it was clearly cartilage. The other arm feels warmer as well so we are expecting a pair.
Right in front of the window too.
Linda is coming ’round for coffee this afternoon so I will have to get strategic with the cushions. For now, I have pulled the drape across, but the lace is about to germinate so more sunlight is the last thing it needs.
At least the sun means I will steer Linda straight out onto the patio. Linda will ask how I am and I will say finefinefine and I will ask how Linda is and she will say finefinefine and we will smile. I will switch on the pond and we will watch the plastic lilies wave their leaves up and down as they float on the resin. Their whirring will almost be loud enough to drown out the chirping coming from the handbag Linda will kick under her chair. She will blush and gulp down her coffee, make an excuse about a ham to collect from the butcher or a hat fitting for her sister’s wedding. I will wait until she has left before I hoover up any stray feathers.
Linda arrives, just after the raincloud.