Where Did Lottie Find The Fucker? Under A Bleeding Heart?

 

knock knock

knock knock

 

‘Aha,’ I thought, ‘that’s a BERSERKER knock,’ so I went to the door to play the game I like playing with them.

 

knock knock

WHO’S THERE?‘ (it was me who said that).

but instead of hearing a little voice squeaking, ‘Pothtman Pat!’ I heard a little voice squeak ‘timothy.’

‘FUCK OFF! GO AWAY!’

 

But he wouldn’t go away, he kept knocking his weak little girly knock on my back door –

knock knock …….

knock knock …….

which hurt my ears the more he did it because even though I recognised it as a quiet little knock knock which wouldn’t be loud to others (hyperacusis brain retraining!! and tinnitus brain retraining! It’s amazing what they can do nowadays) to me it still sounded louder than the KNOCK OF THOR –

KNOCK KNOCK

KNOCK KNOCK

so when I reached the point where I couldn’t stand it any more I opened the door and shouted, ‘WHAT?’

‘Hello.’

‘FUCK OFF. WHAT DO YOU WANT?

‘I’ve brought some leaflets to show you.’

‘Eh?’

‘Can I come in? I’d like to show you what they’re all about. They’re very interesting,’ he said, and I was so stunned and confused and boggly-brained that when he stepped forward I automatically stepped back without thinking – and in he came.

‘Wipe your sandals,’ I mumbled.

He went straight over to the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair as he said, ‘May I?’ and even though I didn’t say yay or nay or how’s your father, he sat down.

Then he said, ‘Come and sit with me.’

NO.’ Like fuck I was going to sit next to him – though I don’t know why I bothered standing as close to the open back door as I did, if he’d started attacking me I couldn’t have RUN OUTSIDE, could I?

‘What do you want?’ I asked.

‘A green tea, please.’

Cheeky bastard.

‘What do you WANT?‘ I repeated.

‘Well now. I came to show you these,’ and he started flapping the leaflets at me.

‘Leave them there.’ I pointed at the table. ‘You can go now.’

‘No.’

That was it –

PANIC ATTACK, PANIC ATTACK, PANIC ATTACK, GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OFF ME, GET OFF ME and whatever else I screamed at him, because he came over and TOUCHED MY SHOULDERS and pulled me forward so I was bent in two and he kept saying ‘ Breathe, breathe, breathe, slow, slow,’ and as the PANIC ATTACK started to ease he said ‘You’re fine, you’re fine, it was only a panic attack,’  – and it might ONLY have been a panic attack to him but I think I changed his mind on the ‘only’ when I spewed up all over his nasty sandalled feet – ‘oo! oo! My feet! oo! oo!’ he said, and he shuffled himself out of the door and into the garden and the second he was through the door I slammed it shut and locked it and bolted it and clipped all the padlocks into place, then I ran to the window to see if he’d gone but he hadn’t, he was in my back garden standing on one nasty sandalled foot WITH THE OTHER NASTY SANDALLED FOOT RAISED AND ABOUT TO GO INTO MY FISH POND THAT ISN’T A POND IT’S HALF A WHISKEY BARREL.

‘MY FUCKING FISHES!!!!’ I screamed and I BANG-BANG-BANGED on the window but he ignored me so I ran upstairs to the spare bedroom and opened the window and he was STILL KILLING MY FISHES so I looked round for something to throw at him but I couldn’t see anything throwable, my collections in that room are PRECIOUS, but my sniper rifle was propped up against my elephant’s foot umbrella stand and I knew it was loaded because what’s the point of having a sniper rifle if it isn’t ready to use when you need it?

So I shot him. But I didn’t shoot him in the head, I shot him in the arse-cheek because the way he was balanced, one nasty sandalled foot on the ground, the other KILLING MY FISHES, his arse presented the best target. He fell over, backwards, into my creamy-flowered Potentilla. No scream, they only sound that came out of him was a weird little ‘ooooo.’ But who says ‘ooooo’ when they’ve been shot in the arse? I’ve never known anyone to say ‘ooooo’ when they’ve been shot in the arse, they usually scream blue murder  – I had one bloke (a cold-caller – energy suppliers) who wouldn’t stop screaming, ‘MURDER-MURDER-MURDER-MURDER,’ till the ambulance came and took him away.

I rang the Big Chief Inspector and told him to add timothy to my tally and to tell his 999 operators to ignore any calls from or regarding him – I didn’t want the nuisance of the Armed Dibble Unit and the megaphones again (the brain retraining hasn’t covered police megaphones yet), and nosey neighbours who want to know why they’ve been evacuated off the street. The Big Chief Inspector asked if I was okay and I said, ‘I am now,’ and he said, ‘That’s all right then. Don’t worry yourself any further, Dotty dear, I’ll sort it all out at this end. Go and have a lie down.’

So I did have a lie down. And I had a little sleep. And when I woke up and looked out of the spare bedroom window, timothy was gone and I could see down into the whiskey barrel where my two fishes were swimming around like nothing happened, and when I looked at them through my binoculars they seemed as happy as fishes can be. Bless their little golden fins.

 

 

Dotty Does It Again – Dibble Defeated

 

I have a secret to tell you. I wasn’t allowed to say anything before but now I can BECAUSE NO ONE CAN DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT.

The secret is that after the horrendous way Sergeant Sherlock treated me (REMEMBER HIM?), the Big Chief Inspector and I had an agreement – when a complaint is made about me he sends his underlings round to my house to take a statement, all official-like, then, before the statement can be filed, he makes it go away and he makes the complaint go away and if he HAS to he makes the complainants go away too. In return, I don’t tell the newspapers about his druggy Sergeant who tried to take advantage of a poor, vulnerable, mentally-different She-Hermit (ME!).

The agreement worked well when everything went to plan, but in a situation like the one that happened yesterday afternoon when everything DIDN’T go to plan, it can all go tits up.

It started with the underling Dibbles being late. It’s a stipulation of our agreement that I NEVER have to wait for them, EVER, and the resulting panic attacks left me unable to answer the door when the fuckers DID decide to turn up. So what did they do? They BROKE THE DOOR DOWN, picked me up off the floor and arrested me, then they radioed for the Black Maria, threw me inside it and took me to the station where they PUT ME IN A CELL AND LEFT ME THERE TO ROT. All I could do was have panic attack after panic attack and vomit my innards into their nasty metal toilet. A doctor came after fuck knows how long and calmed me down enough for me to ask to see the Big Chief Inspector who didn’t come downstairs to my cell until about three months later.

RESULT

I now have COMPLETE IMMUNITY FROM THE POLICE AND INSTANT DOUBLE DIBBLE PROTECTION IF I EVER FEEL I’M BEING GOT AT. Like a diplomat. Like the Queen. Like Prince William. Like Prince Harry. Like Princess Kathy. Like Prince Charles (who we should never almost forget because he IS the first in line).

I also received a profuse and exorbitant and extremely satisfying apology from the Big Chief Inspector.

I was also awarded a very nice, very shiny QUEEN’S POLICE MEDAL which I spotted in the display cabinet in the Big Chief Inspector’s office – it was originally awarded to the Big Chief Inspector for saving the lives of twenty-four people in something or other, I don’t know what, I wasn’t really listening until he said I deserved it more than he did. Very true.

I was also given the promise (a written promise, naturally) of transport to and from where ever I want to go when I’m ready and able to leave my house – which means that when I’m cured of Hermititis and People Phobia, I’ll NEVER HAVE TO PAY FOR A TAXI FROM TESCO EVER AGAIN.

BOSH!

DOTTY WINS AGAIN.

NO ONE BEATS DOTTY.

 

 

Dotty Nearly Died Last Night But Dibble Saved Her From The Mean Things

 

I’m living in my tumble dryer. Don’t worry, it’s only till Scotty and Lottie have got rid of all the MEAN THINGS in my house. I’ve taken all my beta-blockers so I won’t have a panic attack and disturb all my neat bandages or make my elbows and knees more sore than they already are from April Fool’s Day, and I’ve got my bottle of laudanum with me, and I’ve sneaked in my mini hand-drill in case I really need it, and the hospital gave me TWO jags in the arse last night – some whizzy floaty stuff that’s still working and some superwhoppy painkiller – and that’s how I’m able to tell you all about it.

It’s quite comfortable in here. I’m sitting with my legs crossed and my laptop on my lap (is it still a lap if your legs are crossed or is it a clap or a crap or a clop or a crop) and I can see everything that’s going on in my kitchen through my round window (I always chose the round window in Playschool – HAMBEL! BIG TED! LITTLE TED! JEMIMA! – oh, I’ve got a Jemima, she’s sitting on the sidebar) and I can hear everything that’s going on too and they can hear me but the metal echo hurts my ears a lot when I shout.

Have you ever seen a crack assassin wield a feather duster? Scotty is so PRECISE and EXACT. He’s like MERCENARY MARY POPPINS except he’s bigger and he can’t sing. And he’s scared of children. I thought he’d try and use dusting as an excuse to get rid of more of my collections but – get this! – LOTTIE won’t let him, she said all he’s allowed to do is move something to DUST IT AND DUST WHERE IT LIVES and then PUT IT BACK IN ITS PLACE.

wOw

Do you want to know why they’re here? Shall I tell you what happened?

No, I don’t think I will.

 

 

 

 

beep

‘LOTTIE! THE FUCKING DRYER JUST BEEPED!’

‘It didn’t, I’ve switched it off at the wall.’

‘Oh. Right you are then.’

 

 

 

 

 

I was only kidding – of course I’ll tell you it. Why wouldn’t I? I love you all (y’all).

It was Anette’s fault – she scared me last night when she told me there are MEAN THINGS in my house. After the first four panic attacks, when the laudanum and the beta blockers started to kick in, I did what she said and got all my cutlery out and laid it round me on my bed, then I wrapped myself in tin foil but I didn’t have enough to cover all of me, I managed to cover everywhere except from my left knee down AND THAT’S WHERE THEY GOT IN. I felt them slithering up my leg (I had my short-leg pyjama bottoms on) and then they started biting me but it wasn’t really biting it was more like suck-biting, like vampire leeches and then they were all over me inside the tin foil slithering suck-biting slithering suck-biting and I was screaming and I grabbed some forks and tried to kill them, legs STAB arms STAB belly STAB neck STAB face STAB head STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB everywhere all over me and I couldn’t kill them, they wouldn’t get off me I killed one and twenty more slithered onto me I screamed and screamed and STABBED and STABBED and they kept coming and coming and then BIG ONES came ROARING ROARING ROARING my name and they grabbed my arms and I knew they’d eat me if I didn’t fight back so I STABBED and KICKED and BIT and NUTTED them but MORE BIG ONES grabbed my legs and my head and my middle and pinned me down and I thought that’s it, I’m for it now but I wasn’t, they ripped the tinfoil off my face and they weren’t BIG MEAN THINGS they were DIBBLE and AMBULANCE and they were all swearing and shouting and one was holding his blood-spurty nose and another was bent double holding his balls and that’s all I remember until I woke up in hospital and Scotty and Lottie were there.

I’ve got 78 butterfly stitches. It sounds a lot but they’re spread all over me in twos and threes with one big one on my neck that needed seven butterly stitches. It doesn’t hurt but I think it will later on when the super-whoppy painkiller wears off.

So Scotty and Lottie – Dibble went for them and took them to where I was, in hospital, and they told me that when they arrived I was out for the count so they waited for me to wake up. While they were waiting Lottie went to get some drinks and that’s when a FEMALE HEADSHRINKER came down from upstairs to do her voodoo on me but Scotty used all his charm and wiles and (Scotty told me this bit later, Lottie doesn’t know) he took her in a toilet cubicle and SHAGGED THE SENSE OUT OF HER, love at first sight, beautiful, marry you, my darling, my only one, four kids, I LOVE LOVE LOVE YOU, and when I woke up they brought me home and the first thing I did when we got home is pretend I needed a wee so I could go upstairs for my laudanum and my mini hand-drill and then I ran (hobbled) downstairs and grabbed my laptop and got inside the tumble dryer. The first thing Scotty did when we got home was ring THE BIG CHIEF INSPECTOR and as a result of his phone call they’re not coming to charge me with GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM any more. The first thing Lottie did when we got home is make us a pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches.

Both of them sat on the kitchen floor, outside the tumble dryer, to eat their Cumberland sausage sandwiches at the same time as I was eating mine. Lottie made me tell her about the MEAN THINGS and after I’d finished telling her she said

‘That’s it, Scotty’s moving back in with you.’

Scotty’s mouth was stuffed with sandwich so he did some big nods.

‘We’ll get you sorted out – NO, Dotty, no arguments. We’ll start by getting rid of the mean things. That woman Anette doesn’t know anything, it isn’t shiny things they’re afraid of – it’s FLASH SPRAY WITH BLEACH.’

So they’ve been cleaning EVERYWHERE AND EVERYTHING in my house and Lottie isn’t letting Scotty slack off at all, she’s bossing him round like a Sergeant Major. And they keep bringing me drinks of Diet Coke and the odd Cumberland sausage when I want one and about half an hour ago little Emily popped her head round the back door and her eyes were as big as saucers when she saw me in the tumble dryer but a second later when she noticed Scotty dusting a shelf her eyes became HUGE, like glittery frisbees, and I thought ‘Dear jesus, no, please don’t let it happen,’ but it was too late, I couldn’t stop it – THE THUNDERBOLT and she hasn’t taken her eyes off him since.

Bits of me are starting to sting.

Come on, Lottie and Scotty – hurry up with cleaning out the MEAN THINGS, I need a wee and I need a sleep.

I’m going to try and have a sleep in here, my eyes keep shutting and I can’t stand that stupid look on little Emily’s face.

God love her and save her.

 

 

Dotty Has A Date With Her Pet Policeman

 

Eeeeeeeeekkkkk! Eeeeeeeeeeekkkk! Eeeeeeeeeekkkkk!

I have an OFFICIAL NEW BOYFRIEND who is an OFFICIAL OFFICER OF THE OFFICIAL POLICE WHO UPHOLD THE OFFICIAL BRITISH LAW.

It’s MY PET POLICEMAN, SERGEANT SHERLOCK.

He told me his real name again but it’s something boring so I don’t want to remember it, but he let me give him a sweetheart’s nickname because he’s a big softie. I call him PIGGY-WIG and he calls me MADAME HEADBANGER because I’m not some old slapper of a tart who lets men call her by her first name on THE FIRST DATE.

Yes, we had a DATE. A real one. This afternoon. He came round with PC Plod (his psychic police twin) and Sniffy, their little sniffy dog, on the pretext of giving me a Caution for wasting police time. He came in and pretended to give me the Caution, then he sent PC Plod and Sniffy off on a fake drug hunt round my house so he could get me alone.

‘I know you’ve manipulated the situation to get me alone to tell me nice things, but stand back or I’ll kick your bollocks up through your brain,’ I said. ‘Don’t you know I have Hermititis and People Phobia? That means I’m scared of PEOPLE which also means YOU. Nothing personal though, I still want to be your girlfriend. Piggy-Wig.’

‘Madame Headbanger, I assure you I have no intention of coming near you,’ he said.

I gave him a wink, then another few winks to make sure he noticed the winks because my eye’s still a bit swollen. I winked to let him know I was IN ON IT – our love had to be kept secret from PC Plod who wouldn’t think twice about grassing up Piggy-Wig to the Chief Inspector for romancing when he should have been at work.

‘Do you want a Cumberland sausage sandwich?’

‘I really shouldn’t … ah, go on then.’

I whipped the plate out of the keep-it-warm bit of the oven. ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier. Six I prepared earlier.’

He gobbled them down. And he had good eating manners – he kept his mouth closed and he didn’t make ANY disgusting noises. ‘Great sausages,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Very nice. Thanks.’

“My dear friend Dotty makes wonderful Cumberland sausage sandwiches.” At the first syllable I turned round, whoosh, and there was little Emily smiling at me, holding out her arms for a big cuddle.

‘Little Emily!’ I ran over to her, and while we were having our big cuddle I heard Sergeant Sherlock’s chair move back from the table.

‘Madame Headbanger! Are you all right?’

‘Yes, yes. I am now. This is my best friend in the world, Miss Brontë. Emily, this is my new boyfriend, Sergeant Sherlock.’

Piggy-Wig looked at me, then at little Emily, then at me again. ‘Madame Headbanger, come and sit down.’

‘No. You’re not one of those controlling men who won’t let me have friends, are you? I won’t put up with that, my dead husband would tell you I won’t. If he wasn’t dead.’

Little Emily tugged my cardigan sleeve and whispered, “Beware! He has the look of a sly fox! He is plotting against you!”

I whispered back, ‘Don’t worry, little Emily, I can handle him.’

Piggy-Wig took his phone out of his pocket. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a quick phone call.’

‘Okay.’

He went towards the back door. Then he stopped. He stood still for 48 seconds (I counted), and then he started swaying. I went over and guided him back to the chair, singing a little song for him –

♬♪ When Marimba rhythms start to play, dance with me, make me sway.

Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore, hold me close, sway me more. ♬♪♬

Little Emily said, ‘Oh Dotty! Dean Martin! Do you own a recording?’

‘Yep. I’ll dig it out for you later.’

She clapped her hands. ‘Wonderful!’

‘Will you help me with Piggy-Wig, please? He’s slumping and he weighs a ton.’

‘Move to the side. I know just the way to manouevre a man in a fugue. I have plenty of experience.’

In two shakes she had him sitting up straight at the table, then she did something with his head to stop it lolling. His chin was on his chest and he had a stupid grin on his face.

We left him at the table and went into the living room so I could look for my Dean Martin cd. While I was looking we had a little discussion about which Dean Martin song was best, SWAY or MEMORIES ARE MADE OF THIS. We’d just decided that we couldn’t decide between them when we heard stomping across the ceiling.

‘Goodness, Dotty, why did you refrain from mentioning another policeman in the house?’

‘I forgot. There’s a sniffy dog as well. It’s called Sniffy.’

‘What shall we do?’

‘I don’t know. I thought it would just be Piggy-Wig who came to see me. I didn’t know he was going to bring his psychic police twin with him.’

Next minute there was a massive clatter of noise as Sniffy started barking and came galloping down the stairs dragging the shouting PC Plod behind him. They ran right past us and into the kitchen and by the time we got there Sniffy had started going mental, barking his head off at Piggy-Wig and pulling so hard on his lead in his attempts to get to him that PC Plod had to brace himself on the kitchen worktop to stay upright. He got his radio out and told the other end that he needed assistance. Within five minutes there were more policemen in my kitchen than EVER before (and a young policewoman who had her hair scraped back in an unflattering way – she would have looked nicer with a fringe), then two paramedics (I think they were both paramedics, but one might have been just a normal ambulanceman), then just me and little Emily again. We sat for hours listening to Dean Martin, then there was a knock at the door.

The Big Chief Inspector! I hadn’t seen him since the night I killed Simon.

Come to apologise to me for me having to witness ‘…the dastardly doings of a drug-addled police officer.’ – his words, not mine. And who says ‘dastardly’ these days anyway? Well, obviously he does. But who else?

So there it is. I always pick the bad ones. I don’t know why I even thought it would be different this time.

Never mind though, I made myself some Cumberland sausage while I was making Piggy-Wig’s (naturally), and me and little Emily are going to spend the evening with Dean Martin, who looks even better in real life than he does in those old films on the telly.

 

Dotty Wants To Batter Someone But She Can’t So The Police Will Have To Do It For Her

 

Someone just sent me an email and in it they asked me a horrible, insulting stupid question that I think you should all see —

Is Little Emily your go-between drug dealer?

And here’s my answer that I’m writing here instead of in an email so I have evidence for when I SUE YOU FOR ALL YOU HAVE AND FOR ALL YOU WILL EVER EARN —

NO SHE IS NOT MY GO-BETWEEN DRUG DEALER, YOU FUCKING KNOBROT.

For one – little Emily is an AUTHOR

for two – she is DEAD

for three – what gave this stupid tosser the idea that I take drugs? Have I ever mentioned taking drugs? NO. Medication – YES, but drugs – NO I HAVE NOT. AND I DO NOT APPRECIATE THE INFERENCE THAT I HAVE.

I’m ringing the police. I’m ringing 999 and they’ll come straight away and when they do I’ll show them the email and tell them I want the fucker done for SLANDER. And I’m ringing Sergeant Sherlock who is now my PET POLICEMAN AND ALSO MAYBE MY NEW BOYFRIEND BUT WE’LL JUST SEE HOW IT GOES who will make sure the 999 police arrest that person and show them some good old-fashioned police brutality.

HOW CAN THEY SAY SUCH A HORRIBLE THING? HOW CAN THEY?

 

 

Dotty Is Friends With The Police Again (But They’re Coming For You, Clown)

 

The police called round to my house again last night.

It’s been a few weeks since I saw them last, on THAT night – see Dotty In The Darkness (with lots and lots of swearing) – and I must say I’ve missed their sweet little 12 year old bum-fluffed faces that always look so SERIOUS. And I’ve decided to forgive them for THIEVING MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL because after many, many, many hours of rageful thinking about WHY they STOLE MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL, it came to me one day that maybe the policeman who STOLE MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL needed it for himself because being a policeman must be a stressful job sometimes – I wouldn’t want to have to spend my days (or nights if I was on night-shift) climbing trees to rescue stupid cats. Who would? Let the fuckers fall and then maybe they won’t SHIT ALL OVER PEOPLE’S GARDENS, maybe they’d be too frightened to go out in case they fell out of a tree and they’d stay in their own house and shit in there instead. (Or is that Firemen who rescue cats? Same difference).

Two policemen came to see me.

1  Sergeant Sherlock

2  PC Plod

They’re not their real names. I can’t remember their real names so I gave them aliases. They were new policemen, I’d never seen either of them before and I know all the local bobbys.

I didn’t hear them at first because they came to the front door and knocked on that but bricking it up must have provided a layer of sound-proofing so I only knew they were here when I heard them battering on the back door. I panicked a bit at the sound of banging on the back door, I thought it was someone wanting to dump THE BERSERKERS on me again, but I answered it and it was the police and my heart gave a little skip (not a panicky palpitation) because I thought they’d decided to give me my STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL back, but when I said ‘Have you brought my STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL back, the STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL that one of you Keystone fuckers THIEVED FROM ME,’ Sergeant Sherlock said no, they hadn’t, they were here about the noise.

Eh? What noise?

‘Singing,’ he said. ‘Very loud singing.’

‘Oh, that.’ Fucking nosey neighbours AGAIN. ‘It was me and Clown, we were singing duets and rounds. We were bored.’

‘Clown? Clown who?’

CLOWN, you clown.’

‘Surname?’

They’d tried to trick me with that one before, asking for my surname and when I told them it they said no, we mean the other person’s surname. But I was one step ahead of them.

‘Fire’

‘Where?’

‘No, that’s Clown’s surname, you knobhead. His middle name is On, but he doesn’t spell it with a capital O and I’m not sure if that’s because it’s spelt that way on his Birth Certificate or if he’s just minimised the size of the letter to try and look cool.’

‘Is Mr Fire still here?’

‘No, don’t be stupid. How can he be here? He’s at home.’

‘When did he leave?’

They were asking such daft questions I couldn’t help laughing. ‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. He was never here.’

PC Plod piped up, ‘Stop being unhelpful, Miss Headbanger. Mr Fire and yourself were disrupting the peace. We need to speak with him.’

‘It isn’t MISS Headbanger, it’s MADAME Headbanger. I have been married you know.’

PC Plod again, ‘So where is your husband? Is he here?’

‘No. I killed him.’

They didn’t say anything for a long time, they just looked at me. The silence was getting creepy so I said, ‘Don’t worry, he isn’t under the floorboards or anything. It was a long time ago and I was found not guilty.’ Bless their little rubber bullets, they each breathed out a long breath at exactly the same time, like psychic synchronised twins.

‘Where is Mr Fire?’

‘Do you feel each other’s pain?’

‘What?’

‘You know, like when one twin gets battered round the head, the other twin feels EVERY BLOW.’

‘Are you threatening us?’

‘No I’m NOT threatening you. I was just ASKING for fuck’s sake. Hoy, hang on, why are you looking at me like that? It’s police intimidation. I’ll report you.’

The Sergeant coughed. Well, it was more of a throat-clearing harumph. Actually no, it was a timely little bark. ‘Will you tell us where Mr Fire lives, Madame Headbanger?’

‘Yes, he lives in Canada.’

‘So he wasn’t part of the singing that disrupted the peace?’

‘Yes he was.’

‘I think you need to come down to the station with us.’

Oh fuck. I HATE going to the station because of my HERMITITIS AND PEOPLE PHOBIA.

‘Don’t you know I have Hermititis and People Phobia?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Do you want a Cumberland sausage?’

Sergeant Sherlock’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, you’re THAT Dotty Headbanger. The one with the Cumberland sausages. The lads down the station say you make the best ever Cumberland sausage sandwiches.’

‘Yep, that’s me, guv.’

And an hour later they left with their bobby-bellies full of Cumberland sausage sandwiches to go next door to arrest the noisy neighbours who won’t stop banging on my wall.

 

 

 

 

CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES TO THE RESCUE YET AGAIN? IS THERE ANY  FEAT OF SUPER-HERO-NESS THEY’RE NOT CAPABLE OF? NO, NOTHING CAN STOP THEM.

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