I'm door-stepped by my next-door neighbour. There are days when I'm a prisoner in the Mews - they're always out there, hovering, and my every social interaction gets more and more desperate, more and more inadequate. A gobshite all of my life I find myself orally constipated. The neighbours have been lovely, sending notes of condolence, Michael next door putting my bins out and offering me lifts all over town. But I wasn't expecting one of them to come round and ask me about Kelly. So we stood blathering on the door-step for twenty minutes until I started crying and she cried off. That's clearly the trick - get the tears out early and they'll leave you alone.
We ended up talking about the wasps in her garden stinging her grandchildren. Bless her she's a lovely woman but...
These cancer research adverts showing weeping old men sat on their sofas aren't doing me much good either...
*see even the puns are suffering
** Gah. Should have been "Pun time is over". Damn you spirit d'escalier!
pheurrggghh - maybe the neighbour believes in the anti-british way of getting things out in the open, mingled with some clumsy counselling. ... baking you a cake might have been a better idea...
ReplyDeleteShould have been esprit d'escalier as well. Yes Ms. Sparkle to paraphrase Ronan Keating "You say it best when you just give me a cake and shut the fuck up"
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