Box

In my mailbox.
It doesn't actually tell you what it can do for you.
I could be missing something.

It's cold and I have slowed like a lizard on a sunless rock, or lava cooling ashy-edged on its way down the mountainside. Except that a lizard is too charming and lava much too implacably impressive. 

The lid is off the anxiety box and inside there is an electrical fire. If you're clever you'll starve it to death, slam the lid and cut off the oxygen and narrow your eyes smugly as it sparks its last. The trouble with this is that it takes a kind of cold, matter-of-fact resolve that is often lacking while the severed tension lines in your head are thrashing around going GA-ZING as they hit the puddles. Because sure! There's water in there too. 

So instead you pour things onto it, anything you can find, sand and soot and odd socks, cold tea & washing up, television and post-war mystery novels, gritted teeth and the promise that you can tangle with the water bill and the estate agent not today.

Tomorrow I will tell you about Ged and the Master Namer.