"Mommy, mommy, the ceiling is sweating."
And indeed it was.
Drops of moisture had globulised on the cheap paint. Jelly bubble-wrap, quivering gravid, threatening to drop its load as soon as we called bed-time.
"Marky! Where's that bloody landlady's number? It's been three weeks since she promised to do something about the damp in here. We're not goldfish."
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
