Harold watched the undulating floor, his picked up and hooked over the stretched bar of the chair, well above the waves of carpet that lapped against the edge of the floorboard-pattern linoleum.
The table shifted under the sway of the moving carpet and a teaspoon dropped into the churning carpet. Harold caught flashes of it as it sank beneath the weaves and put a steadying hand on the table to prevent the loss of his teacup.
He looked up at the walls of the kitchen. Had they always been painted such a deep azure blue with fluffy white clouds? He thought not.
“Enough!” he shouted, his voice almost lost among the clatter of a flight of dinner plates looking for scraps. “I wish I hadn’t had prawns for breakfast.”
The sudden absence of sound was as loud as the noise that preceded it. He put a foot cautiously down on the now immobile carpet. One thought over-rided all others as he crossed the carpet to the cupboards.
He was hungry.