The "spare" room

It has been freshly painted a crisp lime colour. Ready for sale or ready for a guest. It’s not for use as much as it is used for show. There is an old Dyson hoover in the corner; a DC04 apparently. Its bruised decal secondary to its replacement that resides in another room. Totems of Tory aid.  There is pine furniture, the worst of the house. Other spare parts mis-align in here. A barrenness circulates around the room underneath the bed and into the idle gloss work. At one point this empty room marked a symbol of achievement. Now maybe just middle-class sterility.

The dross nature of "nice" interiors. I'd rather it be bad than "nice". Stacks of memories filed neatly into albums sit patiently for rituals of recollection to moments of seized happiness.

How many other extra rooms are empty? Layers of hotels are empty. Nocturnal rooms. How many rooms are full? How many cease to be occupied? How many never cease to be occupied? How can such a silent room be so stentorian? And how do some attempt silence and still say nothing at all?

The rectangular window. Serves a slice of home county countryside, within the boundaries of the villages most prolific landowner. A nascent hum of the A24 hangs there. London’s veinal tendrils sprawl out to the meekest of quarters.