Gaps under the eaves of the house, front and back. When Stefan came to connect the boiler he climbed into the loft, felt the whirring of wings in the darkness. Bats, he said. Tonight there's something padding around in the roof. It taps its talons on the boards. The grey cat pricks up its ears. Stares at the ceiling. There's nothing much either of us can do about it.
My record collection is in the loft. Once it was my proudest possession. Most weekends, in my youth, I added to the collection. Then I left home. Lived, as we grandly called it, on the road. No place for my Hi-Fi system - on the road. I left it at home, along with the records. From then on, music came in the form of cassettes played through car stereos wired to 12V batteries. Eventually, I was re-united with my record collection. Technology had made it redundant. CDs were the thing: strange little discs that glimmered with rainbow colours as you turned them this way and that into the light.
The grey cat is a fine companion. She lies next to me on the bed. Earlier she'd looked up at the sky. An airliner spread vapour trail through the sky. The plane looked very silver. If we were Neanderthals this scene would have sent us scurrying.
Narnia-like, an old wardrobe towers against the wall. There is a keyhole in the door. The key is silver. The door needs to be kept locked to stop those that are tempted to try and find what lies in the darkness beyond the coats and dresses that hang in there.
The cats licks its paws. The creature in the loft continues its scratching and pacing. The record collection continues to gather dust.
Come morning, the silver key will still be in the lock waiting for someone to turn it.
The records will wait another day for someone to take them from their sleeves.
Talons, claws and rainbows and the darkness still waiting.