Moles spend much of their time underground. Digging. Their paws are especially adept at clawing their way through life. They are squatty with underveloped hind legs. Close to the ground.
She was like that. Cubish in stature. Cubish in personality.Even driving a Cube. Always digging. Cherubic little face but claws that could pierce with the slight movement. Always into everything. Everyone's business. A self appointed Chief of Police. Commanding. But I am not so sure who she commands. Definitely the down and out. The elderly, too.
She is partially friendly with Town Crier, another rotund woman. Town Crier has a pitbull appearance. Cockney-like mannerisms. Pygmalion. There is absolutely no filter between her brain and her mouth. She appears to like to help folks in distress. She would even lose her life to safe someone. She is also dogmatic.
Without seeing her, the sounds of her flip flops year round and a heavy walk bespeak her presence. Her British voice always gives her away until she rounds the corner. She likes the remote control in the gathering room and can't turn the volume up loud enough. She is fodder for my blogs. So is Mole.
But Mole isn't nice. She tells the obvious. Always. A woman who feeds your dog bones while insulting the owner. Very Catholic in her upbringing, she is continuing aghast at her ground children. None, interestingly enough, come to visit her. She is married to Jabba, the Hut. More rotund, morbidly obese. He is her parrot. Mynah bird.
It was a short walk to the gathering place to complete this blog. It was also more than quiet. Until Mole entered the room. Without concern for anyone watching the morning news, once again Mole commanded the space. She was speaking about who was breaking the rules again. After delivering the basics, she trudged off to her room by the front door. Slamming the door as always.
Projection can be fun. Especially for the observer.
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