Dunno how it is for other single ladies, but I get all sorts of odd sorts creeping up on me. Last night, for instance, I’m lying in bed, sighing away. Read too much news, stuffed myself with meat pies, wallowing in misery, you know how it is.
Then I hear this soft little whine from behind the wardrobe. A tiny, pitiful sound.
“Bedbugs?” I think. “Read there’s a right epidemic of ’em in London. Blimey, they’ve reached Portsmouth already? Must be knackered.”
Ten minutes later, the “bedbugs” give up whining and start scraping at the floor.
“Right, I’ll get up and clobber ya,” I lie.
No chance of moving after that plate of meat pies. God forbid I need a wee in the night—I’d have to roll to the loo.
“Don’t clobber us,” the “bedbugs” say politely.
“Talkin’ ones,” I think through my meat-pie haze. “So not bedbugs. Must be the neighbour gone barmy. Then again, who ain’t these days? Fair enough, me. Not like I’ve got much to go barmy over, but other folks are strugglin’.”
Then the “bedbugs” stop scraping, and in the dim light, something tall and shaggy starts creeping towards me. My eyesight’s rubbish, so I squint, tryin’ to work out three things:
Did those meat pies knock me out without me even noticing?
Is that three ears or three horns? Where’s this tall bloke come from in our block? I keep a list of all the tall ones—it’s my little hobby.
“Walter Geoffrey?” I try naming the stranger.
“Cold,” says the towering thing, then smacks its forehead straight into the ceiling light. “Ow!”
“Who are ya, then?”
“Grandad Pook,” it giggles, stretchin’ out these long, spindly black fingers at me and goin’, “Oooooo!”
“I’ve painted me nails black for Halloween too. That gel polish or your own?”
“Own,” it mutters, offended.
“Bit awkward scratchin’ your nose with claws like that, innit?”
“I don’t get it! Aren’t you scared?”
Then it shoves its horrible mug right up close, and turns out it’s got three ears—two on the sides and one weird lump on its temple, more like a big ol’ wart.
“Got a book due next week and only three pages done. Plus the mortgage and the divorce. I’m a grown woman, mate. Try scarin’ me with droopy jowls or somethin’.”
“Our lot say you didn’t even scream when you were five. Clonked one with a chamber pot. His head still tilts sideways.”
“So why’d you show up, then?”
“It’s cosy here.”
“That’s the meat pies. Want one?”
“Alright.”
“Then fetch ’em yerself—I ain’t gettin’ up.”
The ugly mug darts like a shadow to the kitchen and comes back with tea (poured in my favourite mug, no less!), meat pies, and a sandwich. Even got an apple clamped in its gob. Just like me, only hairier.
“Wan’ some?” it shoves the plate at me.
“Eh?”
“I said, want any? Help yerself, I took plenty.”
“Would love to, but no room left.”
“Shame. Look like you could pack it away, stretchy as a snake in spectacles.”
“Cheers for the compliment. Lie down, then.”
I shift over, and we lie there a bit. Nice, really. Nighttime, munching sounds, smell of meat pies. What more d’you need to soothe the soul?
“Fancy poppin’ down to Mrs. Higgins on the third floor? She’s elderly, don’t take much.”
“Went to hers yesterday. She lobbed a stool at me.”
“Ah. That explain the lump.”
“Yep.”
And we lie there another half-hour, sighin’ over our own troubles.
Might just ask to join ’em. Lovely, ain’t it, bobbing about other folks’ flats nibblin’ free meat pies? Just need somethin’ sturdy for me head. A saucepan, maybe.
