The Watchful Room

My writing class. Personification.

We meet “the watchful room”. Watchful is claustrophobic, I’m told. But I’m not convinced. Someone being watched might feel claustrophobia, but that’s only one of many possible emotions. So the connection’s too weak for me. Too big a punt. Sounds more like an author who tried too hard.

Grandad was not an educated man. Born in 1908, he received only basic schooling, just enough to drive his coal truck to the docks during the Blitz.

His last years, he was broken. Spent his days in his armchair. But he read. Voraciously. Penny westerns. Dreadful. No accounting for imagination.

Mum asked, “what if you don’t understand a word?” There must have been some.

To him, that was simple. “I skip it. Look at the words around it, guess what it could mean.”

Easy. It might have given him all the more pleasure.

Grandad might have got on with this example.

I ponder, am I cut out for this lark?

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