Clunck, squeak, slurp, yawn. He popped in this morning still smelling all blue collar. Socked feet, blue pants drooping, fluro yellow and blue work shirt, they used to be orange, wth those silly silver reflective bands around his arms and belly now bloated both with age and his wifes fine cooking. He had his tea, the fancy stuff he liked, smells like rose and vanilla this time. White mug with the welsh flag printed on the side. He had lived in Australia for forty five years but still thought of his heritage. Another yawn brought a glaze to his darkly shadowed eyes. he ambled over to the easle and sqinted at the progress of the sepia smudges and calligraphic lines of the under painting. I knew he was still happy with the work so far, a smirk and satisfied mumble to himself. I just watched the mountain from the top of the bookshelf as he sluggishly scratched his arse and pottered around for a bit doing nothing in particular. Another slurp or two. God that tea does smell nice, all roses and turkish delight. He played with the leaves of the newly potted bonsai fig before scooping it under his arm and taking it outside for some fresh air and sunshine.
The door squeaked and cluncked behind him. Off for a vampire sleep now I suppose. Ive had a long night to, think its time to slink away to my cosy nest as well.
Good morning to you