My colleague and I live next door. The old private sector. And every working day, I first walk five hundred meters to his home, then we go together to work another kilometer and a half. Halfway between us is a two-storey house. All as appropriate, deaf brick fence, garage with automatic door. Until last summer, it was painted light yellow. Then the owner repainted it in gently pink. (No, don’t think, nice colors and no hassle.) It is distinguished, so to speak, from the surroundings. The orientation.

Often, if I was late, my colleague called and asked, "Where are you there, are you sleeping anything else?" Answer: I’m approaching / nearby / I’ve already passed. While he was yellow – “I’m going next to the ‘psycho’.” It became pink – “I go past the pig house...”

Yesterday, after reading the "Pikabutian", I missed the time of departure. Even on the street, it’s hard to go.

I call the phone:

Where are you, are you sleeping?

I'll go to the pork house, I'll be there soon.



Five seconds later, a scream over the fence:

“Your mother, what color do you paint it?”



It was uncomfortable.