The thought of books passing through so many unwashed hands—people reading them in the bath,
letting their dogs sit on them, picking their nose and wiping the results on the pages.
People eating cheesy crisps and then reading a few chapters without washing their hands first. I just can’t.
No, I look for books with one careful owner. The books in Tesco are nice and clean.
I sometimes treat myself to a few tomes from there on payday. At the end of the process, the flat was clean, and very nearly empty.
I made a cup of tea and looked around the living room. It just needed pictures on the walls and a rug or two.
Some new plants. Sorry, Polly. The flowers would have to do for now.
I took a deep breath, picked up the pouf and squashed it into a bin liner. It was quite a fight to get it in.
As I grappled with it, I thought about what I must look like, my arms wrapped around a giant frog, wrestling it to the ground.
I snorted a bit, and then I laughed and laughed until my chest hurt.
When I stood up and finally tied the handles, a jaunty pop music song was playing and I realized what I felt... happy.
It was such a strange, unusual feeling—light, calm, as though I’d swallowed sunshine.
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