THE ARRANGED LINE OF BRICK BOXES: CHRIS PILKINGTON
The arranged line of brick boxes for people storage
By Chris Pilkington
Contained
neatly, amongst lighting, heating, water piping and questionable decorating, boxed in amongst designs for heat capture and retention. Numbered in an odd way on one side and even on the other, the street, is home, on the way to and on the way from. It is passing scenery or the last stop. Or even a place of departure. Mostly though it is a bullet point list of stories hidden away behind a wooden door. Often the sort that is kept hidden by the daily greeting and by a thin veil of dull thumps, thuds and neighbourly privacy. Number 63 The stamp enthusiast, Timothy (something-or-other, when referring to his surname) was and is a pleasant and quiet character. He was always with a keen set of eyes. The sort of eyes useful should one need to look for mice at night while out walking. Also of useful tongue and nimble finger when he was allowed to hold them. The Black Penny was something of a joke to him, having acquired one through questionable methods and later having to swallow it to prevent his misdoings catching up with him; he was reminded of the paper quality of such a stamp when it re-emerged 4 days later. (A testament to his high-fibre diet). He had it framed
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and it garnered much curiousness from visitors when many questioned the existence of the Brown Penny. Number – N/A The bored housewife – actually this is an umbrella term for any woman who has rushed into marriage for the wrong reasons and is now unhappy with her lot or the type of female who is only happy when she can feel sorry for herself. The Umbrellas themselves are fine. As indeed are the ladies themselves whom mother nature has reserved for her revenge on mankind, the Lady brain being used for its computing power, enabling the Gaian network to number crunch ways of wiping out humanity to enable a rebirth on the planets surface once again. So I’m told anyway when one finds the time talk on the lay lines. Often in the 1970’s one would see the side affects of this natural subconscious algorithm, emerge as a quick fling with the milkman. Number 26 Upon a stern looking sofa, there is a man whose idea of a terrifyingly enjoyable night is to parade his sticker collection- gathered almost impossibly through the ages, and is brought to your beautifully bored eyes in his sitting room. Which, luckily is a dirge brown to accompany the predictable and stereotypical emotional setting. This fanatical mediocre bore was such a
JANUARY 2012
menace that girls coming of age would be warned via officially sponsored pamphlets. In later years, being set into the folklore of the area, Japanese tourists would flock to his gate only to leave with a growing sense of anger at the world. He, like myself, had a remarkable ability to resist the charm of attractive weather ladies on the evening and morning telly. Number 43 A legend in his own mind, the wouldbe effeminate tailor who lived in a bright Orange house. Unfortunately having been blessed at birth with the mind/body/voice and soul of a burly builder, he had set within him an inner rage and conflict. Which meant he not only lashed out at the freely “effem” and homosexual but also had a deep hatred of builders, DIY, and the city and guilds as a name. By the time he had reached the age of 50 he had not only forgotten that he was married but that he was also a father and business owner. Having been consumed by rage and confusion he was alas found hanged in the loft amidst decades worth of browned paper detailing a tailoring service run akin to a mobile hairdresser. Fancy. Number 28 Locked away, dull eyed and alabaster of skin, reliant on mummy and daddy but with the street facade of a warrior: The middle class drug user. Who will one