too much make up and I’m presuming she didn’t appreciate my
eye roll as I walked out of the door – without dramatics of course, appearances
remember? I walked through the village with no real purpose, I had a day off
college and although there was a small pile of work that needed doing, I knew
in this mood I had no chance of concentrating properly.
And so I walked, aimlessly meandering through the
village, ignoring the faces I passed as I kicked at a stone. As I passed the Bere’s I looked up for the first time, my curiosity
spiking. I checked the driveway for cars, watched the windows for any sign of
life and then before I knew what I was doing, I climbed the wall to the back
yard and crept towards the door.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking – I had a
reputation as a rebel and I wasn’t helping the case but I couldn’t help myself.
Maybe the Stepford wives were rubbing off on me but I
felt an overwhelming urge to go explore the house and find out more about my
mysterious neighbours.
I tried the backdoor, quite surprised to find it
unlocked. As I entered the large kitchen, not much different from my own, the
smell of porridge greeted me and my stomach growled appreciatively. I crept to
the table and saw three bowls laid out in a family arrangement – the biggest
bowl at the head of the table and two smaller bowls at either side. An
unexpected rush of affection for the Bere’s washed
over me as I looked at the setting – I couldn’t remember the last time I had
sat down for breakfast with my family, or any meal for that matter.
I walked over to the table, running my finger over
the rim of the bowl as I sat on the head chair. All rational thought left me as
I dipped my finger in to the remnants of the porridge, quickly spooning it in
to my mouth and immediately regretting it. The salty taste hit my taste buds
and I cringed. Curiosity got the better of me, and I repeated the process on
the second bowl, tasting the overly sweet oats and pulling a face. An insight
to the family, a strange one, but an insight all the same.
With some trepidation, I dipped my finger in to the
third bowl and hesitated before sucking the porridge from my finger. With an
appreciative moan as my mouth watered, I went back for another taste. This was
perfect, just right. I smiled as I realised I had something in common with one
of them. Somehow I knew it was the youngest, the son. Instinct perhaps.
Feeling emboldened, I pushed back from the table and
left the kitchen, finding myself in a beautifully decorated living room.
Smaller than my own, it was cluttered with various ornaments and knick knacks
but each one looked as though it belonged there. I walked along the
mantelpiece, completely devoid of any dust and looked at each of the object
there, placed in-between various framed photographs. The Bere’s smiled at me from behind the glass, at various points during the years and I smiled back.
The room was dominated by three chairs, one for each
of them – clearly they never entertained guest. The first chair was a typical
lazy boy style, brown leather covering with the television remote on the arm. I
sat on it, and made a disgruntled noise as my ass met a hard seat.
I stood and looked at the second chair. This was not
to my taste but I could tell it was Mrs Bere’s . With
a floral covering, and deep plushy cushions, it
looked as though it would swallow you and as I sat in chair, immediately
sinking in to the softness I was proven right. I struggled to stand, my legs
kicking in the air as I tried to free myself from the chair.
The third chair beckoned me and I knew I would love
it. It wasn’t remarkable in any sense, just a normal cream armchair with a
battered brown cushion squished in to the corner but as I sat on it, feeling
the perfect balance between firm and soft, I sighed in relief. This was a good
chair, a perfect chair, just right.
I felt like I was pushing my luck but as I glanced
to the wooden staircase, I felt a
eye roll as I walked out of the door – without dramatics of course, appearances
remember? I walked through the village with no real purpose, I had a day off
college and although there was a small pile of work that needed doing, I knew
in this mood I had no chance of concentrating properly.
And so I walked, aimlessly meandering through the
village, ignoring the faces I passed as I kicked at a stone. As I passed the Bere’s I looked up for the first time, my curiosity
spiking. I checked the driveway for cars, watched the windows for any sign of
life and then before I knew what I was doing, I climbed the wall to the back
yard and crept towards the door.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking – I had a
reputation as a rebel and I wasn’t helping the case but I couldn’t help myself.
Maybe the Stepford wives were rubbing off on me but I
felt an overwhelming urge to go explore the house and find out more about my
mysterious neighbours.
I tried the backdoor, quite surprised to find it
unlocked. As I entered the large kitchen, not much different from my own, the
smell of porridge greeted me and my stomach growled appreciatively. I crept to
the table and saw three bowls laid out in a family arrangement – the biggest
bowl at the head of the table and two smaller bowls at either side. An
unexpected rush of affection for the Bere’s washed
over me as I looked at the setting – I couldn’t remember the last time I had
sat down for breakfast with my family, or any meal for that matter.
I walked over to the table, running my finger over
the rim of the bowl as I sat on the head chair. All rational thought left me as
I dipped my finger in to the remnants of the porridge, quickly spooning it in
to my mouth and immediately regretting it. The salty taste hit my taste buds
and I cringed. Curiosity got the better of me, and I repeated the process on
the second bowl, tasting the overly sweet oats and pulling a face. An insight
to the family, a strange one, but an insight all the same.
With some trepidation, I dipped my finger in to the
third bowl and hesitated before sucking the porridge from my finger. With an
appreciative moan as my mouth watered, I went back for another taste. This was
perfect, just right. I smiled as I realised I had something in common with one
of them. Somehow I knew it was the youngest, the son. Instinct perhaps.
Feeling emboldened, I pushed back from the table and
left the kitchen, finding myself in a beautifully decorated living room.
Smaller than my own, it was cluttered with various ornaments and knick knacks
but each one looked as though it belonged there. I walked along the
mantelpiece, completely devoid of any dust and looked at each of the object
there, placed in-between various framed photographs. The Bere’s smiled at me from behind the glass, at various points during the years and I smiled back.
The room was dominated by three chairs, one for each
of them – clearly they never entertained guest. The first chair was a typical
lazy boy style, brown leather covering with the television remote on the arm. I
sat on it, and made a disgruntled noise as my ass met a hard seat.
I stood and looked at the second chair. This was not
to my taste but I could tell it was Mrs Bere’s . With
a floral covering, and deep plushy cushions, it
looked as though it would swallow you and as I sat in chair, immediately
sinking in to the softness I was proven right. I struggled to stand, my legs
kicking in the air as I tried to free myself from the chair.
The third chair beckoned me and I knew I would love
it. It wasn’t remarkable in any sense, just a normal cream armchair with a
battered brown cushion squished in to the corner but as I sat on it, feeling
the perfect balance between firm and soft, I sighed in relief. This was a good
chair, a perfect chair, just right.
I felt like I was pushing my luck but as I glanced
to the wooden staircase, I felt a
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