By Will Wiles
A British copywriter house-sits at his composer good friend Oskar’s latest condominium in a glum japanese eu urban. The directions are uncomplicated: Feed the cats, don’t contact the piano, and confirm not anything damages the precious wood floors. content material for the 1st time in a while, he by accident spills a few wine. The house and the narrator’s sanity progressively collapse during this strange and pleasant novel.
Oskar has left a number of notes for his good friend, lightly teaching him within the right upkeep of the flat. yet over the process one disastrous week, because the scenario in (and out) of the condominium spirals uncontrolled, the notes tackle a extra insistent—and creepily prescient—tone.
Anyone who has ever felt not so good as a perfectionist good friend will sympathize with the narrator’s plight. Wiles is a certainly humorous comedian novelist within the culture of these past British W’s, Wodehouse and Waugh.
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Extra info for Care of Wooden Floors
Hanner turned up a palm. "I think it depends what you want to do," he said. "The theurgists certainly don't claim to be infallible, and plenty of prayers go unanswered, but they always seem to be able to get certain things done. " A sudden brief silence fell, and Hanner realized what he had just said. " "Our mother,'" Nerra said angrily, shoving her plate aside. "He saw our mother waste away with a fever. And the magicians wouldn't help because she was Lady Illira, Lord Faran's sister. " She glanced at Alris, who looked down at her own supper and picked at a chicken bone.
Hanner started. "I think so," he said, turning to find that a plain woman of uncertain age had opened the door of the shop. She peered about cautiously, then stepped out beside Hanner. " "I don't know," Hanner said. "Is she a wizard? " "She was flying," Hanner agreed, "but I don't think she's a wizard. There's some kind of magic causing trouble. " The woman snorted. "I'm not going after anyone who can fly! If you want to deal with magic, find a magician. " She looked back and forth along Newmarket Street .
He could not bring back any faces, nor even any totems-all he could remember seeing were flames and clouds and stone. He knew that whoever had sent the dream wanted him, Lord Faran, to do something, to go somewhere and do something as soon as possible-but he had no idea where, or what he should do, or who had sent it. If this was the Spell of Invaded Dreams, it had gone wrong somewhere. He wondered whether perhaps this was some other sort of magic entirely, one of the less reliable sorts-witchcraft or sorcery, perhaps, or even herbalism or one of the really minor schools like science or spiritism or ritual dance.