I don’t know about other single women, but I seem to attract all sorts of oddities. Last night, for instance, I’m lying in bed, sighing. I’d read too much news, eaten too many meat pies, and was wallowing in misery, basically.
Then I hear a faint whining sound from behind the wardrobe. A tiny, pitiful little voice.
“Fleas, maybe?” I think. “They wrote about a proper flea epidemic in London. Don’t tell me they’ve made it to Manchester too? Must be exhausted.”
Ten minutes later, the “fleas” stop whining and start scratching at the floor.
“I’ll get up and smack you in a minute,” I lie.
No chance of me moving after that plate of meat pies. God forbid I need the loo in the night—I’ll have to roll there.
“Don’t smack us,” the “fleas” say politely.
“Talking fleas,” I think through my meat-pie haze. “So not fleas. Must be the neighbour finally losing it. Then again, who isn’t these days? Fine, not me. I’ve got nothing to lose it over, but other people suffer.”
Then the scratching stops, and in the dim light, something tall and shaggy starts creeping toward me. My eyesight’s rubbish, so I squint, trying to figure out three things:
Are the meat pies the world’s best sleeping pill, and am I already dreaming?
Are those three ears or three horns?
Since when do we have an unaccounted-for giant in our building? I keep a list of tall people—it’s my little collection.
“Ethan Thompson?” I try to identify the stranger.
“Cold,” replies the towering figure, immediately smacking its forehead into the ceiling light. “Owwww!”
“Who are you, then?”
“Old Man Pook,” the lanky thing giggles, stretching out long, spindly black arms toward me and going, “Woooooo!”
“I painted my nails black for Halloween too. Are those gel or your natural claws?”
“Natural,” it huffs.
“Must be awkward picking your nose with those.”
“I don’t—wait, aren’t you scared?”
It leans in close, and now I see—it’s got three ears. Two on the sides and a weird one on the temple, more like a giant lump.
“I’ve got a book due next week, and I’ve only written three pages. Plus the mortgage, plus the divorce. I’m a grown woman, sorry. You’ll have to do better than flappy jowls and spooky noises.”
“Our lot say you didn’t even scream when you were five. Clocked one of us with a flowerpot. His head’s still crooked.”
“Then why’d you come?”
“Cosy in here.”
“That’s the meat pies. Want some?”
“Yes.”
“Then fetch ’em yourself—I’m not getting up.”
The ghastly guest darts to the kitchen like a shadow, returning with tea (poured into my favourite mug, no less!), meat pies, and sandwiches. An apple’s clamped in its teeth—just like me, only with better hair.
“Y’wannit?” It holds out a plate.
“What?”
“I said, d’you want some? Help yourself, I took plenty.”
“I’d love to, but I’m stuffed.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Like a python in glasses.”
“Cheers for that. Lie down, then.”
I shift over, and we lie there for a bit. It’s nice. The night, the munching, the smell of meat pies. What more do you need to soothe the mind and soul?
“Maybe go down to the old lady on the third floor? She doesn’t ask for much.”
“Went yesterday. She threw a stool at me.”
“Ah. That explains the lump.”
“Yep.”
And we lie there another half-hour, sighing about our own troubles.
Might ask to join them, honestly. Sounds grand, drifting through strangers’ flats, munching free meat pies. Just need something sturdy for the head—a saucepan, maybe.
