The other day we had brunch with The Antiquer et famille. The Antiquer lives on a quiet bend of the Canning River in a house that isn't, by any means, as flash as some of its neighbours, but hey, it's on the river. And it's large, sunny and perfectly serviceable, and it's on the river.
So suffer in yer jocks.
He often complains that people out for their waterside constitutional stare at his home as they walk past, unabashed that the owners are out on their front porch staring right back. I told him he should smile and wave and say hello. A grunt was all reply I got. I don't suppose strangers should expect much more.
More than one generation of Antiquers has lived in this house so there's a lot of stuff piled up around the joint, which he is in the process of clearing out. As a consequence the front of the house is a mess of blue tarpaulins and packing boxes and stuff, stuff everywhere.
And then there are the sheepdogs snuffling around in it all. It's quite a scene.
As we stood on the porch and stared at the morning walkers staring at us, The Antiquer said that every third person stops, points out the house to their companion and makes the demolition motion: one arm sweeps in an arc in front of the body, and then both arms are raised above the head and slammed downwards.
I think he should leave everything as it is. Just out of spite.
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