Thaddeus Littleman
The D.I.Y. Homebase Bloke
A satirical novel about a London lad in serialised form
Chapter IV
As soon as I woke up, I forgot my plan.
That was my thing. My diagnosed Over-Focused A.D.D. Sometimes the seeds are not planted deep enough — and they get blown around, perhaps lost forever. Or take root a life-time later.
Now I was hungry and cold.
I was up early, collecting firewood. When was the last fire here to cleanse the yard of debris and fear? I gathered large stones and red bricks and built a ring, thirty feet away from the trailer. The shed was a disaster — half-rotted; its gray paint peeling in strips. It wasn’t locked. I used a shovel to dig a hole. And was I even a Scout? Nay!
The yard didn’t have grass — so it wasn’t as if The Aunt would be mad. My ideas were generally for the best — my M.O. That could have been seen as snobbish if it wasn’t necessarily correct most of the time, mates.
The Aunt didn’t seem she spent much time in her yard — unlike Mum. After thirty minutes, the sun just poking through the pines, I already had my tee-pee of kindling. Just needed paper and a match. The Aunt, indeed, was not one to have copies of the London Times.
