THE ROOM

by Lesley Mackenzie

The TV cowers in the corner of my room, black, blank and 'bonkers'. It sits on a low white table, the top covered with multicoloured tiles that, when the standard lamp is lit, bounce around the ceiling. The other resident on the white table is Alexa; she sings "Blue Moon" softly to herself for the fourth time today. Repetition seems to be her thing; I guess it's because it's my favourite song. A very green plant thrives on the shelf under the table. It flowers intermittently during the winter months with little pink, wax-like buds, as if it's unsure what year it is supposed to do this. I love pink! I have a pink jumper with pearls attached, pink hair, and a spotted pink shopping trolley which lives in the cupboard at the end of the hall. Sometimes I have to leave it in the kitchen after unloading the groceries, as it complains bitterly about being put away in the dark. Looking around the sitting room, I realise that the footstool has decided to remove itself from in front of my chair to the far corner by the door. Its stumpy legs are not strong enough to make a leap for the door handle, so it just sits there, morosely.The door sometimes refuses to open for me if I don't turn the handle the right way, and then it has a long, drawn-out squeak that is far from musical and makes Alexa cringe.Today my rug is all ruffled up with exasperation for not taking off my outdoor shoes and putting my slippers on. It doesn't understand that sometimes I haven't got time, as I am rushing out again almost immediately, usually having forgotten something from the shop. It is one o'clock. I will sit down and watch the 'bonkers' TV news. Unfortunately, my high-backed chair is being very snooty and insists that the cheese, crackers and coffee for my lunch are put on a lap tray; she will not let me forget that I spilled soup onto her yellow velvet upholstery, of which she is very proud. It is a funny room, overcrowded with hanging art of all different genders, not a space between, and lots of noise from the chatting back and forth. Ah, a knock at the door. I hope it is Amazon with the new glass vase for my mantelpiece. Of course, I shall have to introduce its garish colours carefully; otherwise, it will be rejected, and one day I shall find it smashed and lying on my grinning rug. You would think that you can do anything in your own room, but that's not necessarily true—and possibly not in your room either, if you live alone too.