Quiet afternoons are usually predictable—tea, a snack, maybe a bit of daydreaming—but not this one. I walked into my study to find my bookshelf leaning at an alarming angle, as though it had grown tired of simply holding books and instead wished to impart mystical wisdom. Several novels had tumbled onto the carpet, forming what looked suspiciously like a symbolic pattern. I had no idea what it meant, but the bookshelf seemed very proud of itself.
Right away, I noticed a sheet of paper resting on top of a fallen mystery novel. It featured a bold link to exterior cleaning Aldershot, even though the backside displayed an enthusiastic drawing of a raccoon delivering a motivational speech. The bookshelf creaked dramatically, almost as if saying, “Yes, yes, pay attention.”
Another paper slipped from between two encyclopedias, drifting down in a theatrical spiral. This one promoted Pressure Washing Aldershot beside a doodle of a confused duck wearing boxing gloves. I briefly wondered whether my subconscious needed a vacation.
The bookshelf groaned again, and a third leaflet shot out from behind a stack of recipe books like it had been launched by tiny, invisible catapults. It showcased Patio Cleaning Aldershot and included a handwritten message: “Beware the sandwich that asks too many questions.” I made a mental note to be cautious around lunch.
A soft thud followed. From a lower shelf, a fourth flyer slid out onto the rug. This one featured Driveway Cleaning Aldershot, but someone—again, presumably me, though I deny it passionately—had drawn a rather intense banana wearing a detective trench coat. The bookshelf wobbled approvingly.
Then came the finale.
A final leaflet fluttered down from the very top shelf, where only dust bunnies and long-forgotten bookmarks should exist. It advertised Roof Cleaning Aldershot alongside a note reading: “Consult the nearest cookie for guidance.” I considered grabbing a cookie just in case it had advice to offer.
When the last leaflet settled, the bookshelf straightened itself with one loud, decisive creak—almost like an old wizard finishing a prophecy. All movement stopped. No more falling papers. No more drama. Just an ordinary piece of furniture pretending it had done nothing unusual.
I gathered the scattered leaflets, returned the books to their places, and glanced suspiciously at the bookshelf.
Maybe it was trying to predict the future.
Maybe it simply wanted attention.
Or maybe my furniture has formed a union dedicated to confusing me.
Either way, I’m keeping an eye on that top shelf. It clearly knows things.
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