The neighbour is out sculpting the garden again. The dusk is gathering, but it is still a pleasant evening to be outside. The nights are shortening though, noticeably. I think this is the first summer I have enjoyed: I had an income, I had my freedom, I even had enough confidence to wear skirts and sandals. The one pair of sandals I own.
Our side of the garden looks derelict in comparison. They even dismantled the garden shed and moved it to their side. Will a fence down the middle be next? How else will our slothful natures be shamed? When colour-coordinated flowers sprout along the path, or maybe a water feature gets introduced?
We stare out through the dusty net curtains lethargically and contemplate our garden while waiting for the microwave to heat our dinner. At the sound of the ding, we turn away and all thoughts of prettifying our surroundings are numbed to a lifeless state by the panacea of a flickering TV screen.
Fictionalism 