The builder wouldn't touch it, not gas. He shook his head, suggesting that behind there nothing would be right. You closed the door on him and with your tools, began. Swivelling the gas fire
You'd be amazed, you tell the man you're loading a bed frame in the car tilting wood slats, sliding sides between the seats. Seats like shoulders the head rests, heads. The places I've been
Someone invites you, a drink their house for seven and you take it there'll be cocktails, a tray with olives - not your thing but a dip for the pits, Mexican ware.