The house smelt of cabbage
cooked and eaten long ago but in no hurry to leave.
The ghost of cabbage
slyly seeping through the keyhole;
creeping through the cracks;
lurking in the stairwell;
sliding under the doors.
The room itself was clean,
a little faded but a pleasant enough aspect
if you like your views grey and decaying.
I tried the bed, it creaked.
I sniffed, there was that smell again
invading my nasal passages;
lingering in the air.
“It’s ten shillings a week,” she said.
I caught a faint whiff of greens on her breath.
Was nowhere in this house free from the tyranny of cabbage?
“I can do you an evening meal for an extra two shilling and sixpence.”
“Would that involve cabbage?” I asked
“Maybe,” she said suspiciously.
“I’ll take it.”