What happened to the day? It started well enough with toast made from the bread I baked yesterday, mild sopressa salami, gruyere cheese and gherkins, two mugs of coffee and the hope of going to the cinema. There was a chest of drawers to collect from the furniture store, one that barely fitted into the back of the RAV4. It had to be manouvred onto a trolley and guided through several gates, up a step, into the house, around and down the corridors between the piles of other boxes, down a narrow hallway towards the room of its destiny, manoeuvred again to turn it around and place it, centrally, against a wall with just room either side to allow for a bedroom door opening inward and a closet door opening outward. Butchering the packaging was necessary. Then Lars Knudsen’s portrait of a galah was placed above it. The hook on the wall was just high enough to allow a margin between the blue limewash frame and the top of the tallboy. By then, it was late.
screeches outside
cockatoo as if flies
from the frame