Torpid Tales: Chapter 8 Ruminant

Saturday was squandered. There was no point to the horizon. A grey scale hung over a blocked up mantlepiece. Dirty traces of pictures hung too long becoming smokers' patterns on flock wall paper. The only point of light that of a fire effect gas fire in the local pub. The carrier bag however was exciting. It lay in the gutter. The mystery. The preoccupation. I pressed against the bag reluctantly. It was nearly over. A letter headed sheet of paper gave everything away. Now we all could tut and point at number 10A. Sordid really. I hated myself and then ran and called the police.