Que the Lights
It squats on the corner, an over-sized, out-of-scale brute, of the “heavily discounted modern” variety.
It comes with a coach house offspring. (While there’s a resemblance in terms of materials, not so the style; Dad was apparently of the generic “peaked roof” persuasion.)
Nearing completion, construction stopped abruptly five or six months ago.
The front door is wrapped in plastic, windows frames are incomplete, a decorative column stands half-cladded. The already rusting gas meter suggests premature decay. (Or, just shite materials.) The whole scheme sits tired and heavy among heaping piles of compacted dirt.
Curiously, its many exterior lights are in good working order. These have been operating 24 hours a day, seven days a week, providing the now-fashionable-for-residential dramatic ambiance once reserved exclusively for landmarks and penitentiaries.
But what’s being highlighted here? Insufficient funds? A contractual dispute?
Perhaps its an elaborate public art piece, gifted to the good citizens of Hastings Sunrise for our edification. A running commentary on capital’s eternal vigilance and dim wit.