There has been no beer in the house for weeks. This is not due to any sort of regime change, just merely the fact that supermarket visits have been infrequent and thoughts have not occurred to me at the appropriate times.
Last night, shortly after 10pm, it all got too much for me. Karen and I were in the kitchen in our dressing gowns, and she was hanging out the laundry on the clothes horse. I put my foot down, and told her that we were going to get dressed and go to the pub.
She realised the brownie points that she would gain by accompanying me, and ten minutes later we were in the Fag and Firebucket, a pint of Bee Sting for me, a shot of Morgan’s spiced rum for her.
There was a pool table. It was unoccupied. We made it ours. We played on the table.
Steady on, Adrian.
Having only taken out £9 with me, we found that after two games of pool there was no longer enough in the kitty for two drinks, so we came home.
Abandoned on the pavement outside our gate was a bicycle. A child’s bicycle.
Long time readers of my work will know what happens when you introduce a child’s bicycle into my life. If you fall into this category, feel free to post lots of knowing comments. If you don’t know what I’m on about, feel free to be overwhelmed by your curiosity, inquisitiveness and all-round nosiness. I know how much you want to know. Yes. Calm down.
We stood over the bicycle for a minute, looking around as far as the eye could see. When we’d ascertained that there was no plausible owner within visible distance, we decided to move the bicycle away from the gate and lean it up against our front wall, and review the situation in the morning.
This morning, the bicycle had been moved. It had been moved from a position leaning against our front wall (where we left it) to a position leaning against our gate (where we definitely didn’t leave it).
Someone is either playing a little trick on us, or really really wants us to have this bicycle.
Here’s my theory:
Five years and one day ago, a little girl was riding her bike along our road, when she was hit by an estate agent driving a BMW with a mobile phone pressed against his ear whilst listening to Spandau Ballet and saying things like “Ya” and “Ciao” and fantasising about his wife licking Pamela Anderson’s nipples seductively.
Woah there, Adrian.
The little girl was killed instantly, but her spirit didn’t make a clean break from this mortal coil, and still roams restlessly to this day.
By placing a bicycle outside our front gate, she is trying to persuade Karen and I to have a brat, which she can then possess, allowing her to live again.
It’s only a theory.
Sweet dreams, readers.