The car he used to polish ever Sunday morning at about 10.35am now sits rusting with pigeon shit all over the windows like they do it to confirm that John has neglected, well...... everything.
The garden where he used to spend so much of his precious time, weeding, mowing, all the usual 'winding down' things that middle class, middle aged men do, now looks like Grandad Perkin's allotment, who incidentaly, died of a sudden burglars stab wound several months ago.
The trains that John used to run round that track in the shed, like they didn'thave any place to go, except the plastic station next to the half broken nail, obscurely placed next to the plastic village post office, now are extremely late for their 1/2 inch passengers, who wait as though they have no mind at all.
The kitchen clock which wason John's 'To do' List has been running 2hrs 12mins late for the past 8 1/2 months. That clock will never have any concept of time. Mind you neither does John. His ever faithful wife, who used to wear colourful frocks with matching beads, used to talking fondly of John when she went to Church, dance class and to pick up Louise from Brownies, now sits in another place, wearing a black eye, split lip and broken ribs. John would say it was that blasted cupboard door which was on his 'To do' list. Louise talks to her leather chaired friend about John and the way he comes home after last orders, knocks politely on her door and touch her in places that make her feel nervous and dirty.
Mark, 14, felt he was big enough to take John on 'man to man'. Perhaps he could get his dad to look at the sun, embrace the stars and love his mum, the way he once did. He learnt his lesson when one night, after he had finished with Louise, he had to choose to between belt or boot. Mark couldn't stand up straight, for 3 days after that chat.
Nobody knows where Joe is, so I won't talk on his behalf.
Drink, huh? sometimes I don't like being a fly. It's not the shit we land on you need to worry about, it's the shit we see when we land on your walls.