Every room in Veronica’s house is a different colour, each corresponding to a border holding pen she’s been passed through. The baby pink from Bulgaryland a gross fondant, the Kizzokh green of luminous stars in the daytime, an Albrownian blue so repellent in its misrepresentation of blue you’d weep for the sky. The paintwork is slapdash, no pride in the trade, cutting-in is not a concern in Veronica’s house. Scuffed walls are unadorned bar the occasional poster conveying gooey paranoia. A ghlash of power is piped through the vents.
There is no furniture in Veronica’s house. In the grubby centre of every room squats a metal booth no bigger then a Portaloo, breached only by a window no bigger than a face at chest height. Through the cheap mirroring on the glass a shadowy figure can be made out as the source of dull, rhythmic rubber stamping. Veronica has headhunted only the best candidates from around the world and hires a team of experts to Place them in her booths.
She’s been slowly buying up the land around her house. Once purchased she clears it of all vegetation; as her realm extends so too does the razorwire marking out the perimeter. She personally trained and takes pride in the faint shapes patrolling what now amounts to an area the size of Wales. They wear ill-fitting khaki uniforms, enormous peaked caps and their nightsticks drag along the ground. From space you can see the eccentric traces of their hourly beat, unbalanced as they are by imagined status. This is Veronica’s house. Do come.*
*Dedicated to the man who ripped me off in Kosh Agach, Siberian frontier town. I have an enormous peaked cap in exactly the wrong size waiting for you.
23rd July 2014