Apologies my last post was a downer. I am sure that getting out of our current toilet office involves finding the right lever, or wishing the walls would turn into Victoria sponge. And not needing sleep is a good thing. We can catch up on the blogs. Hope they are reaching you, and I am not shouting into the dark.
So where were we?
When we walked through the front door of the house, everything changed. The house was so packed, we had to elbow people out of the way. Some lay on the floor, asleep others hung from bannisters. Anyone awake drank from receptacles ranging from port glasses to novelty mugs.
These made me realise where we were. With some embarrassment I must admit I knew about this place already. It was on my list of places to visit.
The Freytag House is for those who want a house party to last forever. Not a cool one from the movies, but a tacky, suburban blowout. One where you can always sit in the living room and watch telly with a grab bag of lager. Or find liquors in a walnut drinks cabinet from as far way as Peru. Kiwi schnapps is favourite.
If you look in the fridge, you will find the carcass of a hearty family meal. Spaghetti Bolognese, Shepards Pie, Lasagne. No- one makes it. The food just appears. Music plays from a CD player near the top of the stairs. The sounds is tinny, but fill every floor. If you look in the disc drawer, there is nothing inside.
Small picture frames on the walls have family photos in, the faces blurred into each other, over exposed. There is a cupboard under the stairs with tinned product, none of which I recognised. In the bedrooms patrons dozed in sleeping bags, and a washing machine turns in an eternal cycle.
Most useful of all, the Freytag house is not a house. The building travels around Duchamp like a monorail, collecting more guests along the way. You can only tell by the slight vibration through the floor, and it you leaned far enough out of the window, watching the foundations move.
Which is how we found our escape route.
We popped to the garde for a glimpse of the cigarette butt graveyard, and the rotting swing that flies all the way round if you push hard enough. The sky above was milky with clouds. Grinding towards us is a the telltale neon and grimy fire door of a small town club.
The Butter Mouse pulled on my arm hard enough to pull me onto the lawn. With gras stains on my trousers, we said goodbye to the Freytag house, and burst through the entrance.
We are nearly caught up. I’ll tell you about where we are currently residing and then look for The Kandinsky. Whatever time it is up on the surface, I hope you are well.