Friday, February 17, 2012
The Mole People
Wizened devotees of the blog may remember this post.
Since then, tragedy has ensued. Dear old Jack took himself off on one of his many aimless meanders, never to return. Shortly after his funeral, his long-suffering mother joined him in the afterlife.
They left behind a beautiful house on the corner of our street and, as is the case with quiet suburban neighbourhoods, everyone began to wonder who would move in. A nice family duly appeared, but with them came a huge fence separating the house from its garden and a flurry of planning applications from the council. A new house, it seemed, was to be built on the modest lawn where Jack went hunting for his many cats.
When we took a look at the plans along with our neighbours, it was clear that all of the adjacent houses would have their sunlight reduced to zero and the privacy of their gazebos forever blighted. So we sent off the usual letters of complaint, rich with mentions of ‘carbuncle’ and ‘monstrosity’, in the hope of squashing any plans like Galactus making merry with a handful of universes.
Thanks to our NIMBYtronics, the plans were shelved — only to burst once more from the sod with the thrashing undeath of a zombie hydra. To accommodate our many concerns, numerous windows have been removed, along with half the roof, lending to the structure an air of cheeseboard favourite (only with fewer Emmenthal dimples). To paraphrase Loyd Grosman: who the fuck would want to live in a house like this?
The Mole People.
Though this tiny, tiny house has been robbed of half its features and will no longer overlook those of its neighbours, we, the residents of this street, who never wanted said carbuncle to be built in the first place, will most certainly overlook it.
Work has begun this morning on the site c/o a couple of blokes and a SHUT THE FUCK UP digger, but in the fullness of time, the Mole People will burst from a removal man and scamper fitfully inside with their worldly chattels.
And we will watch for them, these Mole People, shuffling about in the dark, hunching over as they scurry from the big end of the house to the weeny one, fearful of the most horrific beatings.
When that moment comes, the Eye of Whirl will bore through the walls into their souls, teasing secrets from their grubby lair of shadows.
Tune in later this summer for news of any sightings — and pray they bring with them no young, no stupidly named twat breed pets...