Ove muttered something about ineffectual idiots, opened the bike shed, picked up the bicycle, put it neatly inside,
then locked the shed and tugged the door handle three times.
He tore down the angry notice from the wall.
He would have liked to propose to the steering committee that a proper “No Leafleting” sign should be put up on this wall.
People nowadays seemed to think they could swan around with angry signs here, there, and anywhere they liked.
This was a wall, not a bloody notice board. Ove walked down the little footpath between the houses.
He stopped outside his own house, stooped over the paving stones, and sniffed vehemently along the cracks.
Piss. It smelled of piss. And with this observation he went into his house, locked his door, and drank his coffee.
When he was done he canceled his telephone line rental and his newspaper subscription.
He mended the tap in the small bathroom. Put new screws into the handle of the door from the kitchen to the veranda.
Reorganized boxes in the attic. Rearranged his tools in the shed and moved the Saab’s winter tires to a new place.
And now here he is. Life was never meant to turn into this. It’s four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon in November.
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