Me through the kitch. And was making my way through the kitch, late one night, picking off shards of Bourneville from the fridge. When I spied a grey puddle of unspecified wetness on the floor, tight to the skirting board, right neath the little radiator that mostly warms the cat. That radiator, I thought, needs fixing.
Unexamined radiator, painted shade of cream, sat in that kitch safe and unmolested. Old rectangular length of shit. It sat, moreover, in the company of other neglects: the dead television set in the middle of the floor, the upturned bicycle before the patio doors, the broken legs of the piss-stained settees, the broken frames of the piss-stained settees, the small table on wheels encrusted with cum, mountainous black bags of filth blocking the back door. Endless snatches of disorder and dirt, forms of discarded clothes, plates, dried stuff, liquid spills, spatters of moists. Tread it carefully, if you must tread it at all.
The puddle reflection neath that radiator, glows of the kitchen spotlights, shades of nuance through colour and lesser lights. A view of the kitch, caught in gentle waves of shimmering grey. The kitch in miniature, distorted, its sea view if you like. Spoilt in irregular taps by drops of falling radiator liquid, grey. My Bourneville in it, darker, more dangerous, somehow more alluring.