Friday, 27 February 2009

SLEEPY

Have to confess, I haven't slept well lately. And last night I found out why.

Every night for the past week, just as I get my head down, just as I close my eyes and am on the cusp of sleepydom, I hear a bell. A tiny little bell. I wake up, go downstairs, look around the house, find nothing and head back up. As soon as I'm about to drop off again, off goes that dratted tinkling.

Now I know it wasn't Grill. If he wanted to stop me from sleeping he'd do it blatantly, like the time he welded my drillbit to the back of a moving train while I was asleep and I awoke, in only my night-pants, on the track somewhere between here and Newcastle.

Something else was at play here. So last night, I took some flour from the kitchen and scattered it all over the floor, so that anything creeping about would leave tracks. Off I went to bed, as normal, and I waited for the bell. Duly, it rang, but I waited further still. When I was sure it was safe, I hopped out of bed. In the flour were tiny little footprints, like those of a bird, leading towards the bathroom. I followed them along until they stopped at the airing cupboard. I heard a stifled giggle from behind the cupboard door... and then the penny dropped...

'Out you come, Piers...' I said

The giggling shifted from stifled to full-on flob-splutter, as Piers Morgan fell out of the cupboard. On his feet - a pair of Finch Stilts. In his right hand, a tiny bell, and in his left - a bottle of Brasso.

'I got you didn't I?! Eh?' He roared, rolling around on the floor, quite tonto on metal polish and childish glee. 'Now you have to tickle my tummy! 'Cos I'm ever so clever!'

I wasn't in the mood. That was the 4th time this month he'd broken in. I should probably put some steel wool in the skirting board. That'd stop him tunneling in. Him and bloody Ken Dodd...

'If you don't leg it in 10 seconds, I'm going to wake up Grill...' I told him sternly. 'And you know what happens to people who disturb his kip, don't you...'

Piers gasped - 'Sonny Bono?!!'

'Yes...' I replied, 'and it could happen to you...'

That seemed to do the trick. Piers picked himself up from the floor, put his Brasso back into his bumbag, and shuffled out the door. I confiscated his bell and the Finch Stilts. He can have those back when he learns to behave...

Thursday, 19 February 2009

MICE

We have mice. Big mice...

Grill has taken to trying to kill them by dressing up as a skirting board, then lying on the floor with his mouth open. The stench of singed rodent fur still stings the nostrils as I type... Still, it keeps him amused for a while...

I can't for the life of me think where they come from... I'm fully aware that the whole mice and cheese thing is a misconception, which takes the blame off of the wonderful Gouda Viaduct I got from Uncle X last Chrimbo.

I'd get a cat, but that nasty tom next door unnerves me so that I don't think it safe to put a kitten through that constant terror. Something about its hangdog expression, tinged with threat. As if it means to force itself upon you, doesn't relish the prospect, but that the hunger is too great to resist. This is what it must be like living with Michael Barrymore...

Anyway - enough about me... This whole blogging thing is quite new to me (that would make me a... oh what's the net-speak term... that's it - a n00bile). Feel free to leave comments below for me... It'll make a change from listening to Grill listing things that he claims don't exist... Last night it was otters, George Burns and macrame. I'll spare you the detail...

Best,