I’m crying with white bread under the arm

 by Franci Hepburn

anything warm 

 

They say I live in a castle on the hill, but they don’t know. Torrential rain outside, but no water in the house. I close the mains at the bottom of the property- till I can find someone who can detect the leak and fix it for free. I carry three buckets of rainwater upstairs to fill the cistern. I count the stairs. Ten of them. Three times ten and back. Sixty stairs. Two arms around the bucket. One point of contact, one foot at a time. Next time I’ll use the guest toilet closer to the back door where I must duck because the roof leaks like a shower, which I can’t have.

 

Water dripping down the ceiling trips the kitchen lights, so I cook by torchlight. I wear a coat and boots at the dinner table, a blanket around my feet, which I can’t feel. At least the ambient light is romantic; only one of the twelve globes work. I eat my Aldi pie in silence, alone. But hey, I have Royal Doulton toilets, a million-dollar view of the city, six bedrooms, a terrace, a balcony, a solarium, a studio, a James Bond bathroom with gold tiles, a circular bath as big as a pool and a house I cannot sell.

 

About the author 

Franci Hepburn is an artist and writer who has written manuscripts and regularly enters short stories into competitions. She enjoys observing people and creating characters in all forms. Franci teaches Art at a secondary school in Perth Hills, where she lives. Franci writes in English, her second language.