I don’t know about other single women, but all sorts of oddities seem drawn to me. Last night, for instance, I was sprawled on my bed, sighing. News articles devoured, shepherd’s pie stuffed into me, wallowing in my own melodrama.
Then, from behind the wardrobe, something began to whimper. A tiny, pitiful little voice.
“Bedbugs?” I wondered. “They said there was an epidemic in London. Don’t tell me they’ve reached Liverpool too. Must be knackered.”
After ten minutes, the “bedbugs” stopped whining and started scraping at the floorboards.
“Right, I’m getting up to clobber something,” I lied.
There was no way I could move after that plate of shepherd’s pie. If nature called, I’d have to roll there.
“Don’t clobber,” the “bedbugs” pleaded politely.
“Talking,” I thought, my brain sluggish from carbs. “Not bedbugs, then. Must be the neighbour gone barmy. Then again, who isn’t these days? Besides me. I’ve got nothing to lose my mind over. Other people have real troubles.”
The scraping stopped, and in the dim light, something tall and shaggy began creeping toward me. My eyesight’s rubbish, so I squinted, trying to figure out three things:
Had the shepherd’s pie been laced with sleeping pills?
Were those three ears or three horns?
And where in this building did we have an unaccounted-for tall bloke? I keep a notebook of them—I collect the tall ones.
“Jeremy Wilkinson?” I ventured.
“Cold,” the looming figure replied, then immediately smacked its forehead into the chandelier. “BLOODY HELL!”
“Who are you, then?”
“Grandfather Pook.” It giggled, stretching out long, spindly black arms. “OooOOOOO!”
“I used to paint my nails black for Halloween too. Those real or gel?”
“Real,” it huffed.
“Bet it’s awkward picking your nose with those claws.”
“Wait—you’re not scared?”
It leaned in, thrusting its awful mug right up to mine. Three ears—two on the sides, one odd lump on the temple, more like a giant wart.
“I’ve got a book due next week and only three pages written. Plus the mortgage, plus the divorce. I’m a grown woman, love. Frighten me with debt collectors, crow’s feet.”
“Our lot says you didn’t even scream when you were five. Clocked one with a chamber pot. His head still lolls funny.”
“So why’re you here?”
“Cosy, innit?”
“The shepherd’s pie. Want some?”
“Aye.”
“Then fetch it yourself. I’m not moving.”
The ghastly guest flitted like a shadow to the kitchen, returning with tea (in my favourite mug, no less!), pie, and a bacon butty. An apple clenched in its jaws—just like me, only hairier.
“Wan’ some?” It offered the plate.
“Eh?”
“Asked if you want some. Dig in, I nicked plenty.”
“Would love to, but I’m stuffed.”
“Shame, you look like you could fit it—python in glasses.”
“Cheers. Lie down, then.”
I shuffled over, and we lay there a while. It was nice. Night-time, munching, the greasy comfort of pie. What more does a soul need?
“Try the old bird on the third floor. She’s lonely.”
“Went yesterday. Chucked a stool at me.”
“Ah. That explains the lump.”
“Yeah.”
We lay another half-hour, sighing at our separate sorrows.
Might ask to join them. Sounds grand, drifting through flats, mooching free meals. Just need something sturdy for the head—a colander, maybe.
