I forgot to mention he has a hole in his jumper   by SJ Butler 

 

Harry’s dog stared for a long time at the ceiling. 

The waves slapping hard the barnacled wall outside, a familiar soundtrack, reminding the sea mutt that it is custom to growl at such things. “Grrrr...!”  

Harry smiles. ‘Steady on old son,’ he says, lighting his first cigarette, then humming a tune like people do in the early hours. ‘La Mer,’ he sings.  

The light in the room switches to a 45-degree angle. Sasha barks at the moving shadow. In the distance a ship honks its horn. Above the tiny houses gulls screech. One lands on the sill and peers inside. All three: the man, the dog and the bird lock eyes. “A heavenly connection,” you might say.  

‘L’ oiseau,’ Harry says, carefully opening the window, then sharing a piece of toast with the big bird. He’s compelled to say Body of Christ but doesn’t. Shutting his eyes he sees his very Catholic parents sitting upright for a family photograph – the accompanying sigh is long and reticent ‘ah, the past: there you are,’ he whispers as if he’s just written it. 

The slap of the sea wall is now a gentle lapping. A sleepy sun seeps in – the grey sky turning to blue, picking out different shades of pastel - dancing around the room to a new dawn. 

A place slowly waking from its slumber provides a soft reminder of the day ahead: an alarm clock sounding, the trundle of the first car; a whiff of yesterday’s laid tarmac, soft and moist on the breeze. Best of all the aroma of coffee and baked bread rising from the street below as Harry thinks of a summer spent in Paris and how he’d acted out being bohemian, writing frightening verse and posing outside cafes dressed in black. ‘I was such an arsehole, Sasha – really,’ he adds with a smile. 

Switching on the radio – Take Five plays as if pre-arranged for the perfect morning. The satisfied gull takes off, gliding high towards a cloudless, serene sky and no doubt the rich pickings out at sea. Like its early breakfast, the bird knows that the night trawlers will soon be returning with more generous pickings - and they’re in a hungry, hurry as if a starting pistol has been fired. 

The news comes on. Harry turns off the radio. It’s the same every day: a healthy learnt ritual from an ex-girlfriend who refused reality, and although smoked a little too much grass, was a good influence in terms of blocking out “the bad shit,” as she hazily, lazily put it.  

‘Sad, mad, world,’ says Harry as Sasha raises a watchful, beady eye and wags at a hundred miles an hour. 

Sitting down at an untidy desk, Harry opens his notebook. Tearing out a piece of paper he writes: 

1 x tin of tomatoes, parmesan, capers, black olives, penne pasta, merlot (2 bottles), dog food, postage stamp, suntan lotion - factor 10, check passport, smile at a stranger! 

 

Harry’s dog stared long and hard at the ceiling. 

A sprung bed spring; the urgent scurrying of feet, a clod! and a clomp! - the flick of a switch, the sound of a kettle coming to life, a gentle yawn, floorboards creaking. 

Say hello to the new neighbour above. 

Harry puts down his pen.  

Gazing out over the rooftops of the snorey town he imagines a love heart being drawn in a glittery night sky on a Christmas advent calendar. ‘Life is good,’ he says, tracing the shape with a bitten to the quick finger. 

Sasha yaps at the still waking ceiling and does a little show-off dance. 

French accordion music seeps lusciously down. Another thud! - a shoe perhaps?

Man and dog crane their necks to the heavens. The occupant on high hums along. 

Harry smiles. He recognises the tune.