About twice a year or so it grows a tunnel.
Everyone in the street goes down it at some point but we don't really talk about it.
The things you find down there aren't meant for decent conversation.
All manner of strange folk wait down there for us.
They have orders for us to collect and deliver on the grounds that we never ask about the contents.
No matter what the size is or how it leaks oil so profusely.
No matter what writhing thing in a bird cage calls our names in our mother's voices.
Our payment is in years and in luck - you'd never know that most of us are over a hundred by now!
The oldest is Mrs O'Murray who's almost four hundred and eighty though she still looks thirty three.
She's been delivering for so long she knows all the alley dwellers by first name.
She's the only one who knows any of them by first name, the sounds incomprehensible to us others.
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