Greta released a sigh of pleasure as she entered Periwinkle Square. It was truly immaculate with its identical mansions, leaf-free entrances and matching rose beds. Greta passed through it every day on the way to her job in Victoria. Although she took a slight detour to do so, this was of no hindrance as it enabled her to start work with a clear head. Perfection did this for Greta. The sight of the higgledy-piggledy mishmash of dire winter clothes that the majority of London commuters insisted on wearing on the preceding tube journey was nothing but a painful abhorrence to Greta, something that needed to be obliterated.
Today, however was different. At first glance the square looked the same, but as Greta ambled through, she noticed something awful. One of the marble pillars outside Number 7 had been damaged.
‘What on earth happened here?’ Greta said to herself and without another thought, removed her gloves and attempted to lift the broken piece which was lying by the pillar.
‘Oi, lady. What are you doing?’
Greta looked up to see a surly workman running up to her with an axe. ‘The new owners said to destroy it. Russians, I think. Don’t like old things.’
‘But it will spoil the square. Everything needs to look the same!’
‘Beauty is truth,’ said the workman. ‘Some poet said that once. These people live here now – the old is not their truth.’
Greta stared at him, amazed he knew anything about poetry but she realised there was nothing she could do so she walked back the way she’d come and resolved to find a different perfect square the next day.
This post was written for Sunday Photo Fiction