Well hello Everybody, happy Friday to you! The little houses are a little bit out of sync today as ‘Living on the Edge 200; Heartwood…’ has seen fit to muscle his way in and rearrange the order of matters. Can you imagine we’ve made it to 200? Which means a great number more than 200 little houses have graced us with their presence… No wonder my head nips!
Anyway, number 200 almost had no little houses at all but a brave detached one moved in just at the last minute to live precariously in the top righthand corner. This is not a happy tale and, if you are in the vicinity, 200 is currently residing at the Take 4 Gallery in Ledbury with a fabulous collection of work ‘Time and Time Again’ by the wonderful Pat Barkley. If you feel you could offer 200 some cheery advice then do visit, he’s there until February 4th 2023
Meanwhile, so you know what the trouble is, here is the whole sorry story… Let’s have some tea…
Living on the Edge 200; Heartwood…
If you have a little time to sit and ponder can I tell you a tale? It’s a tale of magical happenings in a time long before the days of old had even been thought of…
It begins, as these things often do, with a book. It was a large book, a thick, wordy book full of itself. He lived on a shelf with a thousand other books whose areas of expertise ranged from fictions to hard truths, tall tales to concise accounts and high-falutin theory to downright lunacy. Arguments, discussions and conversations flowed freely between them. Everyone joined in, no subject was considered too trivial nor too high brow. Everyone was given air time …
Everyone? You ask. It is at this point that I admit that there was one book who went unheard, but that was because he never ventured to speak. It was the large book I mentioned earlier.
Behind their covers the other books would talk in low voices to one another about him. Some said he was haughty and would never deign to begin speaking to another book. Some believed that he was unable to speak and never had been. Others held the opinion that he would speak when he was good and ready… Whatever the reason, not one of them liked him terribly much.
The truth of the matter was that he was too busy wishing. Wishing that things were other than they were… He couldn’t come to terms with his life as it was, full of other books whose doings were out of his control and it irked him more than words could say.
Thus it was that the years went by and, whilst the other books came, went and returned, the large book stayed closed. And silent. His inner turmoil melded his pages together and, with the unrequested help of some bookworms, he began to disintegrate… xxx
