The Princess without the Pea
Camping with ancestors you call it: corridors, attics, cellars; god knows how many bedrooms.
Mornings Gavel carries scalding tea up creaking flights to the bedroom, where we lie buried under heaps of eiderdowns. Through ice-frosted glass I look out over snow-blanketed fields to the far horizon. Not a soul.
Each afternoon I neglect to pack my suitcase.
Dinner is sardines with champagne in front of the fire, scent of mothballs rising from my stole, once owned, you claim, by a duchess who ran away with the under-groomsman.
Far away in a suburban cul-de-sac, a phone rings into the silence of my spotless house.
Miranda Lewis 2018
Welcome to Friday Flash Fiction!
We have not had real snow this year in London, for which I feel both grateful and jealous. Thanks to Dale Rogerson for the lovely photo and to our host Rochelle who travels the world of Friday Fiction through all seasons, all weathers.
Thanks to all who stop by to read and most especially to those who stay to comment.
For anyone interested this is a companion piece to this Friday Fiction, written almost a year ago. I’m not a quick worker!