**Diary Entry – About Meatballs**
Don’t know about other women living alone, but I seem to attract all sorts of odd creatures. Last night, for instance, I’m lying in bed, sighing. Had my fill of the news and meatballs, wallowing in misery as one does.
Then, from behind the wardrobe, something starts whimpering—a tiny, pitiful little voice.
*”Fleas, is it?”* I think. *”Saw in the papers—London’s got an epidemic. Blimey, have they reached Chelmsford already? Must be knackered.”*
Ten minutes later, the “fleas” stop whimpering and start scraping at the floor.
*”Right, I’m up—gonna clobber ’em,”* I lie through my teeth. No chance I’m moving after that plate of meatballs. God help me if I need the loo tonight—I’ll have to roll.
*”Don’t clobber us,”* the “fleas” say politely.
*”Talking fleas,”* I muse, meatballs still heavy on my mind. *”So, not fleas. Must be the neighbour’s lost his marbles. Then again, who hasn’t these days? Fine, me. I’ve got nothing to lose mine over, but others aren’t so lucky.”*
The scraping stops, and out of the gloom, something tall and shaggy starts creeping toward me. My eyesight’s rubbish, so I squint, wrestling with three thoughts:
1) Did the meatballs work as a sleeping pill without me noticing?
2) Is that three ears or three horns?
3) How’s there a towering stranger in our building I haven’t logged? I keep a list of tall folk—it’s a hobby.
*”Reginald Archibald?”* I try.
*”Cold,”* replies the beanpole, promptly smacking his head on the ceiling lamp. *”OW!”*
*”Who are you, then?”*
*”Old Man Piffle,”* the lanky thing giggles, stretching out long, spindly black claws toward me. *”OOOOH!”*
*”Painted mine black for Halloween too. That gel or natural?”*
*”Natural,”* he huffs.
*”Bet it’s tricky picking your nose with those.”*
*”I don’t—wait, aren’t you scared?”*
He leans in, his ghastly mug inches from mine, and sure enough—three ears. Two normal, one lumpy monstrosity on his temple like a giant wart.
*”I’ve got a book due next week, three pages written. Mortgage, divorce. Grown woman here, sorry. Waggle your jowls all you like.”*
*”Our lot say you didn’t scream even at five. Clobbered one with a pot—still walks crooked.”*
*”Then why’re you here?”*
*”Cosy, innit?”*
*”That’s the meatballs. Fancy some?”*
*”Aye.”*
*”Then fetch ’em yourself—I’m not moving.”*
Off he darts, a shadowy streak, returning with tea (*poured in my favourite mug, no less!*), meatballs, and sandwiches. An apple clamped in his jaws—just like me, but hairier.
*”Wannsum?”* He holds out the plate.
*”Eh?”*
*”I said, d’ya want some? Help yourself.”*
*”Cheers, but I’m fit to burst.”*
*”Look like you could swallow a snake in spectacles.”*
*”Charming. Sit down.”*
I shift over, and we lie there a while. Nice, really. Night sounds, chewing, meatball fumes—what more soothes mind and body?
*”Fancy bothering Mrs. Higgins on the third floor? Elderly, doesn’t ask for much.”*
*”Went yesterday. She lobbed a stool at me.”*
*”Ah. Hence the lump.”*
*”Yep.”*
Another half-hour, side by side, sighing over our own troubles.
Might ask to join their lot. Sounds grand, drifting through strangers’ flats, scoffing free meatballs. Just need something sturdy for the noggin—a saucepan, maybe.
**Lesson:** Even monsters need company—and a good meal. Always keep snacks handy.
