Monday Night

The top floor of the Town Hall has gone and with it one hundred years of memories: one hundred years of meetings, of pantomimes, of 40^th birthday parties, of jubilee celebrations and local election result nights, of ruby wedding dos, of am dram productions, of table top sales and choral society Messiah rehearsals. The crane and diggers are sleeping and the broken walls are like castle battlements against the moon.

 Sid is at home shivering in front of his unlit fire. Whenever he tries to move to get coal and logs he can’t stop coughing. When he sits and thinks only about breathing, the coughing subsides.

 Estate agent Phil is on his knees in his bedroom practising

 Doreen is on her knees in Pete’s bedroom, crying into his duvet as she has done every night for the last two months.

 It took PE teacher Phil 5 stories to get Thomas to sleep tonight – two about pirates, one about trains, one about a princess, a witch and a horse and one about some animals living in a caravan.

 Simon is writing a poem about Emma. About Emma and, if it’s any good for Emma. He’s just got into poetry after reading Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen for English Lit. He is struggling to translate Sassoon and Owen’s horror and disgust for war into charming verse to convey his feelings about Emma. Listening to The Smiths at the same time helps a bit though.

 Eleanor is round at Mark’s place. She wants to watch tele but he’s playing on the Atari.

 Mrs Handy is looking at faded photos of her husband. He would have been 84 today.