on the right, a tall oak framed window and on the left, a flat tablet piano, eighteenth century.
Further on, on the right, a small card table, folding.
And at the opposite wall, on the right at the second window, a writing desk, then the door to the son's room, an upright piano, two sewing machines and an iron stove for the winter-
In the far left wall two doors. Between them a clock, made in France, quiet ticks,and then a loud tick every thirty seconds. Under the clock a small swedish table with an old typewriter on it.
And in the left hand corner, a television, black, far eastern, and a couch
And everyywhere, the son's schoolbooks.
Sit at the table, it is Saturday, six past six in the morning, and quiet. But for the peaceful ticking of the clocks, and the sound of the occasional car passing outside.
No work today, none at all.
Look out of the window, there are three pigeons on the cobbles of the alley, picking at the spaces between the stones.
The one closest, disturbed, turns it`s head to one side to look at the head protruding from the window. Then it flies off, to do its pigeon things elsewhere.
And the sky is a clear unblemished blue.
The sun has not yet reached the depths of the street.
And the neighbours house opposite is still shuttered, the children asleep.
Further on, on the right, a small card table, folding.
And at the opposite wall, on the right at the second window, a writing desk, then the door to the son's room, an upright piano, two sewing machines and an iron stove for the winter-
In the far left wall two doors. Between them a clock, made in France, quiet ticks,and then a loud tick every thirty seconds. Under the clock a small swedish table with an old typewriter on it.
And in the left hand corner, a television, black, far eastern, and a couch
And everyywhere, the son's schoolbooks.
Sit at the table, it is Saturday, six past six in the morning, and quiet. But for the peaceful ticking of the clocks, and the sound of the occasional car passing outside.
No work today, none at all.
Look out of the window, there are three pigeons on the cobbles of the alley, picking at the spaces between the stones.
The one closest, disturbed, turns it`s head to one side to look at the head protruding from the window. Then it flies off, to do its pigeon things elsewhere.
And the sky is a clear unblemished blue.
The sun has not yet reached the depths of the street.
And the neighbours house opposite is still shuttered, the children asleep.
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