Monday, June 16, 2008
A House I Pass Every Morning No. 9: The Brick House
The intelligent pig built his house of bricks.
He sat quite safe and snug inside, watching the remains of a wolf turning in the pot.
He was proud of his house and its beautiful bricks.
They fitted together so neatly, and the brickmaker had delivered two different colours so that, almost by chance, the pig had found himself positioning his bricks to make fancy patterns.
He was not quite sure why he had started making patterns, but it was sure that once he had started, it had become difficult to stop.
His house was so unlike the others. The different coloured bricks, the pattern.
A pig who built his house of stone could never have a house like that. Stone was all rough edged, a thousand mottled shades. There was no precision in it. You couldn't even lie them in an even row.
Precision and strength, that's what his house had. It was the embodiment of law and order. Any wolf that snuck up to his door would get what it had coming to it.