Alex Jury

A Cry in the Wilderness

There is a tree growing in my living room and there doesn’t seem to be anything I can do about it.

I put down my pencil and look back towards the half-open door, but no sound comes, not the barest echo.

You have to know where to look for the real stuff, somewhere that’s not been plundered to death already, a spot people wouldn’t think of.

“Is that wallpaper?”

Just as I can’t pass a ringing phone, so I can’t see a piece of folded paper that has a flash of handwriting on it and not turn it over.

Everything is fine. We all have coffee – good coffee. The clients are smiling. For once, the AV is working.

It’s going to be like a game of bloody Cluedo at this rate.