“Oh, he’s such a dreamboat…” Ann Green stirred her runny porridge with a Sterling Silver spoon held between her right thumb and forefinger. Her elbow rested upon the polished Montgomery and Mattlesham solid oak dining table.
“Who is, dear? Take your elbow off the table.” Ann’s mother, Florentine, said without looking up from her Exquisite Spaces catalogue.
“Ahhh,” sighed Ann, staring at the roses on the Applepwick embossed wallpaper on the wall surrounding the mahogany Grattell fireplace, “Kensington… Kensington Hack. He’s just moved in at the top of the Lane.”
“So the Hacks are back…” Florentine pondered, turning a page with her usual slow grace. “They moved to… somewhere overseas… years ago. They never sold their cottage for some reason, which tells me they intended to move back all along.”
“It’s only Kensington who’s moved in, by himself. I saw him on his Madalasha XT500 yesterday, his full Saint Adonis soft leathers were practically bursting at the seams.”
“Ann. Eat your porridge.” Florentine closed her catalogue and slid it into the Sarv magazine rack, which was beside her Frelswick armchair. The whole room shuddered. “What on Earth…?”
Ann dashed over to the bay window and looked up along Festival Lane. “There…!” she exclaimed as her mother stood next to her to look. Smoke was rising from behind the row of terraced houses over the road.
“Oh dear,” Florentine brought her hand up to cover her mouth, in an attempt to hide the shocked look on her face, “there appears to have been some kind of huge explosion in one of the back yards. Quickly… we must go and look.”
The Mansionic Perspective 
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