Mr Creepy retrieved his tobacco from under the settee while his wife was busy in the bathroom. He’d brought her back from town and was pleased to discover his parking space across the road hadn’t been taken.
No sooner had he reminisced his good fortune, squatting by the settee, than he heard the sound of a large vehicle coming to a standstill outside his house. The road was a dead-end, and very quiet, so he tweaked the blinds to see who it was. He had to bend forward across the settee to do so, and this made his piles hurt.
Mrs Creepy came out of the bathroom and began her slow and careful descent of the stairs. She felt less confident since she’d turned 60, and heard horror stories of women her age breaking ankles, hips and heaven knows what else through slipping on the stairs.
“That reminds me,” she shouted. New tacks for holding down the stair carpet.
“What does?” shouted Mr, Creepy. “Were you speaking to me?”
“Yes. There’s nobody else to talk to, sadly. I forgot to tell you we need new tacks for fixing the stair carpet. It is coming loose in several spots. Can we go back into town for a few minutes?”
Mr Creepy had visions of the lorry stealing his parking space.if he parked behind it, it might reverse into his car. At present his car was between two others, neither of which was likely to move today. He could move his car a little way so it was exactly in the middle, then no-one would be able to squeeze in.
“I’ll fetch some tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll need to buy some more petrol too.”
“Why not today?”
“I have gardening to do,” he lied.
Mr Creepy put on his gardening jacket and boots, and went down the path carrying a spade. He dug over a small patch of soil that didn’t need it, then went behind the shed to roll a cigarette.
“It’s a good job Mrs Creepy doesn’t buy the petrol,” he muttered.
It cost several pounds for the tiniest packet of tobacco, and he’d had to ask ‘Mrs’ for £20 every week for petrol. £20 for abut 50 miles! Perhaps he should invent a few extra journeys to mention in passing …
Mr Creepy’s piles gave a violent twinge as he thought about the new neighbours carrying their furniture along the road, in the light rain. For some reason he suddenly thought of the alcoholics who’d once lived next door, how they were selfish creeps, and spent seven nights and two lunchtimes every week in the pub telling each other what idle dishonest creeps the Irish, Welsh, Jews, French, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, lesbians, queers, sex maniacs, monks, Greenpeace, choirboys, atheists, Marxists and Martians were.
“Bloody rabble,” he muttered.
The image of someone carrying furniture along a road in the rain came into his mind again, and his piles stung. He took painkillers, shook his head to clear it and turned the TV on ... loud.
fiction, psychology, consciousness, satire, relationships