A Bungalow

Imagine you are standing on a deserted street, facing a house. Take a moment to create that house in your mind's eye. What do you see? Two storeys or many stories? Do you like what you see? Would you slate it, or are you afraid of heights? The house I am looking at is one storey, this story.

The family hated attention, stares were a killer, so a bungalow made sense. To deter prying eyes they planted row upon row of interlocking trees knowing that wood suffice. It was a case of safety in numbers, and here multiples of trees.

Their back garden was like a high security prism, guarded on all sides by leprechauns at home among the rainbows. It might sound ostentatious but they come at a refraction of the recommended retail price. Also, in the event of an urgent evacuation, they can pick up the prism, safe in the knowledge it travels light.

With the perimeter secure, they relax with ease. The mother was a maths teacher with an obsession for collecting living room furniture. There were times tables would, almost miraculously, multiply at the expense of space. Or so she thought, but you can’t get rid of space, that would annoy the aliens.

Dinner was always a challenge. When the chips were down they ate on the floor and watched the Titanic. There were other days where they ate like King’s or Tayto or Hunky Dory, and like oh my God the children loved it. The two buoys sat in the corner of the kitchen, it was maritime themed and the mother always threatened to have them shipped out.

The eldest daughter was a runner. You know the kind, tongue always visible and easily tied in knots. Her adoptive parents took her in because she seemed right, in fact she was left. Outside a clothes collection bin they found her. But, if the shoe fits.

The son shone brightly through the clouds, a champion sky diver who was so assured and dependable. The family could set their watches by the son, rising and falling like the light of their lives.

Their father, his art in leaven, hallowed be his name in the bread community. With the city’s number one bakery bearing his name, he has designs on going pan pacific. Since his teenage years, the aroma of flour has scent him into a world where creativity is bread. Unfortunately, he's allergic to flour but kneads must.

I've been standing, staring, for quite a while now. They don't like that, time for me to make like Thunderbirds and go.