by uzwi

A house alarm goes off, one of those noises halfway between a whistle and wail, modulated to sound both nauseous & like a toy. You expect to see someone pushing their house across the carpet of Barnes towards the river, while sparks come out a turret somewhere near the front. “I’m a victim! I’m a victim!” the alarm goes. “I’m the victim! (No, I did it.)” This is not just an ordinary house. This is a Twenty Five Beautiful Homes house. It has a sexy inturned smile of entitlement when it thinks you aren’t looking. It pretends to be disempowered, maybe even violated. “You’d love me even if I was on trial in Italy for sex-related crimes. But I’m the victim!”


When I say “nauseous”, I mean I’m sick of hearing it. I have intellectual nausea; I am sick of being able to see straight through the last thirty years like a glass window, while that stupid self-satisfied noise keeps on making itself. (“You must always love me,” goes the nice house. “I’m alpha! I’m the victim of my own success!”)