Florrie strokes the flowery setee,

firmly, smoothing out non-existent creases,

then gently, thinking: These people aren´t half well off,

cretonne like this sets you back hundreds!


She tugs at the curtains,

opening them and pulling them again.

-Mine were so heavy, not the fabric, mind,

but heavy to pull, had to ask the girl for help.


Who are they? Entertaining constantly,

reading, singing.

Wine and cheese!

Still I recognise... nearly recognise...

like a nightmare it is, at home, not at home,

wandering through familiar rooms

but closely looking so unfamiliar

and where´s the family, by the way -

No children?


Shan´t complain, though, used to be a lot worse,

will never forgive the miserable frozen lot,

wimps weary of the draught,

sacrificed their view, couldn´t be bothered

about ships sailing on rooftops

hid the finest window,

looked into a cheap reproduction instead.


Lovely thick carpet on the stairs,

piano in the study, quite so,

but what is this?

Florrie opens a cabinet door,

a typewriter? Half a typewriter,

cords and leads, a telephone of some sort?


This is a nightmare, must stay a little longer

until I can leave these people to whatever they´re up to.

I will tolerate only good spirits, you hear?

The best butter, fresh eggs,

long lasting intentions, no giving up,

I´m telling you - in my house

every single one survived!


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