My retarded ex-next-door-neighbour has moved back in, much to the annoyance of everyone from number 29 upwards to the school.

He disappeared at the end of the summer last year after he trashed his house one evening during a drunken ‘barbeque’ he was enjoying with a few of his mentally dispossessed ex-army buddies from Newcastle.

I bumped into him in the street yesterday and was surprised that he actually offered me an apology.

‘Sorry about that thing before. You know, burning your fence down and that.’

For some odd reason, I told him it was all right, and to just be careful not to do anything like it again.

He was glad I accepted his apology and even went on to promise further reparations. ‘I’ll come round and fix up that dent in your kitchen wall if you like.’

‘No need. Just try to behave in future. Ha ha.’

I want as little to do with him as possible. (Apart from being so thick that light actually bends around him, he is also very frightening.)

‘I’ve been going to them evening classes, you know.’

‘Evening classes!? You? Erm . . . ahem . . . I mean . . . Oh, really? Basket weaving is it? Flower arranging?’

‘Anger management. I have to go because of me ASBO, like.’

He went on to tell me in minute detail about his various court appearances and convictions. I kept inching away from him and looking demonstrably at my watch but he wouldn’t shut up. I think, rather depressingly for me and Audrey, he is probably just looking for a friend.

‘I’m not your friend,’ I told him. (I didn’t, actually. What I really said was something along the lines of: ‘Anyway, nice weather, isn’t it. I must get going.’)

His account of his various legal adventures of the past few months was so long-winded, tedious and dull that it made me want to go home and self-harm.

After about five long minutes he stunned me by asking, ‘Maybe we could go out one night, me and you, and – ‘

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Maybe an Indian or a McDonald’s?’

‘I don’t eat.’

‘Maybe we could – ‘

‘Oh, look, is that the time? Must dash. Lovely meeting you again. Goodbye. Have fun with yourself.’

‘What about tomorrow? We could – ‘

‘See you later.’

Now I’m more worried than I was before when all I had to be concerned about was his noisy late-night parties and occasional fence-burning.

Why is nothing easy?

Overheard in Café Rouge, Nottingham, last Thursday:

‘Greg, we need to schedule in some face-time with Johnston.’

‘I’m on it.’

‘I hate Johnston. He makes me feel gay.’

‘I know what you mean, but I really like the guy.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Oh yeah, Me and Johnston go way back. He’s like my brother from another mother.’

‘But he’s not your brother, though, is he?’

‘No, Keith, he’s not my brother.’

‘My brother’s a pilot.’

‘Ooh, gosh-wow, super-colossal. Shall we get back to the office?’

‘British Airways, mostly. Just been sacked, you know.’

‘Flying drunk, was he? Ha ha!’

‘No. Actually, they found out he no longer had a valid international passport and – ‘

‘He what?’

‘Yeah . . . Um, I was going to ask you, actually, Greg, what with your connections and communication skills and everything . . . I was wondering if you could give him a hand. He’s been confined to a hotel room in Rio de – ‘

‘Keith, even my astounding powers do not extend to unlocking the borders of sovereign nations.’

‘No, I suppose not . . . I was just wondering if . . . you know . . .’

‘Button it, Keith.’

‘Sorry.’

I bumped into Reg and Nigel coming out of the Co-op again this morning. They had bags and arms full of bottles of wine and 4-packs of Stella Artois lager. Unlike last time, they appeared to be quite sober.

‘Planning another daytime drinking session, chaps?’ I asked breezily.

‘We’re celebrating,’ Nigel beamed.

‘You were last time if I remember correctly. Something to do with the Pope being Catholic?’

‘He’s not, is he?’ Reg seemed rather taken aback.

‘My wife’s coming back,’ Nigel declared. ‘We’re having a party at the Pig and Whistle to mark the occasion. Everyone is invited. Even you.’

‘I don’t think the landlord will appreciate you bringing loads of your own booze to his pub.’ I warned them.

‘Gay Gene?’ Reg looked genuinely bemused. ‘You know Gay Gene, don’t you, Davy? He’s very accommodating. He lets anyone do anything, usually. As long as it’s all done in his pub and not down the road in the Royal. They ought to shut that place down.’

‘I don’t know him that well, Reg. Unlike you and Nigel, I have never penetrated his intimate circle.’

‘Eight o’clock tonight,’ Nigel interjected. ‘There’ll be karaoke, dancing, lesbians, black pudding sarnies, pickled eggs, and a raffle.’

‘Hmm . . . pickled eggs, you say?’

‘Yep.’

‘I’ll be there.’

No.56
You will fall asleep in R.E. The teacher, Mr Hook, who looks like a baby-eating troll, will throw a King James bible at you. He will ask you this: ‘Having a nice dream, Lawrence? Would you like to share it with the class?’

To which you will reply: ‘I was dreaming about Jesus, sir.’ (You were actually dreaming about going to buy batteries for a man.)

As your teacher stares at you with undisguised hatred in his eyes, you will be overcome by a fit of yawning which you will suppress by coughing nervously and by scratching at your nose like a chimpanzee.

‘What do you want to do when you eventually grow up, boy?’ He will ask you.

This will be your reply: ‘Live in a windmill and solve crimes, sir.’

You will be put on detention for three weeks.

My mother and idiot stepfather John called to see me yesterday. (Well, to be honest, I don’t think either of them are that bothered about seeing me; it’s Audrey they really come to visit.)

When they arrived, John thrust a box of Krispy Kreme Doughnuts at me. ‘Have one of these. They’re gorgeous.’

‘No thanks, John,’ I told him, ‘I don’t want to end up like one of the waddling spheroid people I keep bumping into around here. Anyway, I thought you were trying to lose weight?’

‘I keep telling him . . .’ my mum interjected, ‘what with his heart problems and everything . . .’

‘I’ve had three of the buggers already. Tell your mum a little of what you fancy does you good.’

‘Why don’t you tell her yourself, John?’

‘I can hear him you know. What did he say?’

‘Have you forgotten to put your hearing aid in again, mum?’

‘What? A bee? What bee? Where?’ She began vigorously wafting the air around her head. ‘I hate bees.’

‘I’ll have it, then, if nobody else wants it.’ John flopped down on my sofa, put his feet on my antique wooden coffee table and set about demolishing the last of the doughnuts. ‘Here you are, Audrey . . .’

‘What?’ I exclaimed. ‘You know she can’t have anything like that, John.’

‘Yeah, yeah, diabetic, I know.’ He mockingly made quotation marks with his fingers.

‘Why on earth where you going to give her a piece of your bloody doughnut, then?’

‘A little bit won’t hurt her.’

‘Good grief! When are you going to – ‘

‘What? Betty who? Who’s Betty?’ My mum called from the kitchen where she was busily putting the kettle on. She is always putting the kettle on, my mum is.

‘Nothing, mum.’

‘What?’

‘I feel a bit sick now. And you’re right, Davy-lad, I am supposed to be watching my weight. I feel a right fool now for eating all those.’

‘H’m.’

‘But I can’t help myself, you know. No will power. I seem to spend most of my life these days trying not to be an idiot.’

‘Really, John? How’s that working out for you?’

No.55
You will realise you left something behind. You will not be able to remember what it is. When you do, it will be too late to go back and get it.
(I went back to get mine only to discover that I had it with me all the time.)

‘It’s like, freaky, man. Real freaky.’

‘Since when have you been a hippy from the sixties, Nigel?’ (As you are probably aware, Reg’s pretentious friend sets my teeth on edge, even more so when he speaks to me with a bizarre accent.)

‘You look like an Irwin, man.’

‘Eh?’

‘You look like your name should be Irwin. Irwin Lawrence.’

‘Have you been drinking with Reg all day again, Nigel?’

‘Nope. Been buying olive oil for the dips, baby, you dig?’

‘Why are you talking like an idiot?’

‘We’ve got chicks coming round to the house tonight, man. It’s Reg’s idea to have a sixties themed evening. I’m making the dips. Dug out my old kaftan this morning, I did. Know where I can buy any incense in this square village, baby?’

‘No.’

‘You should come, Irwin, man. One of the chicks coming is a sixty-five year old virgin.’

‘Stop calling me Irwin.’

‘You got it, man. Crazy.’

‘Good grief.’