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You know, quiet.
By David Gaffney
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The room he was given had seven wardrobes. Seven. At night the wardrobes
oppressed him. Dark brooding figures shuffling closer to his bed, faces
glowering out from the whorls of polished grain. The landlord wouldn’t let him
get rid of them. They were classic. Solid. So he had to think of a way to use
them. The TV fitted into one, Hi Fi in another, cooking equipment in a third,
and various bits and bobs in the rest. But he couldn’t think of anything to do
with the last one. Then one night he dragged his duvet into it and had the best
night’s sleep ever.
He decided to stay in the wardrobe. He would move in a radio, and would eat
there too. Eventually he would get six more people to live in the other
wardrobes. Because he was the last person to keep himself to himself.
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David Gaffney wrote this poem on the back of an
airline ticket, along with the words “there’s a bomb on the plane” and a
picture of a smiley face with a fuse.
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