
We have bookcases, but the books from them are on the floor, on tables, on footstools, in flurries and drifts. So I asked him. Why won’t you put the books back? I will do, he snapped back. He is the one who puts them there, often opened and left unread.
When I change the bedsheets his side of the bed is six inches deep in books. I have to force my way through a tidal wave of them…
I plot now. I think about what to do. I want one of those camouflaged book cases, where you tilt a book back and a door opens. I would like that.
Open the door, fill it with books, or push him in and throw away the key. Oh don’t get me wrong, food would be delivered three times a day. There would be a laundry chute and a bathroom. A comfy chair and a bed. A secret trap door would be there to pass in things, or hook things out when he’s asleep. He would be happy, I would be able to tidy up….
Life goes on in lockdown. Ideas spring to mind. They are not serious.








Baked beans and sweetcorn with added hot curry powder and breaded chicken fingers.