Guess Who’s Coming To My House This Afternoon?

 

Last night I was bored and lonely again so I got my Ouija board out, hoping for a nice chat with someone interesting. Did I get a nice chat with someone interesting? Did I fuck. I never seem to get anyone interesting – the other night (Sunday, I think), I was talking to a woman from Jarrow, a seamstress who went on and on about sewing and all things to do with sewing – stitches, seams, pleats, materials, threads, needles, thimbles, tape measures, scissors, eyesight, bleeding fingers, the price of candles. NOTHING ELSE. She didn’t even tell me her name. And she began every sentence with “Eeeee, pet,” which is fine when you’re SPEAKING or TYPING it but spelling out each letter of “Eeeee pet,” when the glass has to return to the centre between letters and you haven’t even started your sentence yet is BEYOND BORING for the person at the other end (ME).

I wanted to talk to someone WITH SOMETHING TO SAY. But I always get boring people.

WHY DO I ALWAYS GET BORING PEOPLE?

Where are the FIRST DINOSAUR DIGGER-OUTERS? MARY? GIDEON? RICHARD? What are you doing, why won’t you talk to me?

Where are the people who know my future? MOTHER SHIPTON, COME OUT, COME OUT, WHERE EVER YOU ARE!!

Or a good headshrinker (not Freud)?

Or a maths genius who can work out the winning lottery numbers for next week?

Fuck knows where they are, all I know is THEY’RE NOT ON MY OUIJA BOARD.

So who did I end up talking to out of ALL THE DEAD PEOPLE IN DEAD PEOPLE WORLD?

Little Emily, that’s who. She started fucking about with the glass before I’d placed all the letters out.

D

centre

O

centre

T

centre

T

centre

Y

centre

I

centre

T

centre

S

centre

E

centre

M

centre

I

centre

L

centre

Y

centre

and then she moaned for 40 minutes because she couldn’t find an apostrophe (I lost it one night after a conversation with Barbara Taylor Bradford).

While she was moaning about the missing apostrophe, I was puzzling over WHY she was talking to me through the Ouija board. She only lives up the road, the lazy cow, she could have walked down to see me like she always did before she turned into a TRAITOR and went off with that zombie dog-fuck, Kumblant.  I knew she wasn’t ill again, and I knew she wasn’t dead (well, no more dead than she already is) because Branwell would have told me, so it wasn’t that she was UNABLE to come to my house to talk to me – obviously she didn’t WANT to. So why was she hijacking my Ouija board?

I slapped my hand on the arse of the glass to stop her apostrophe whinge.

WHY ARE YOU HIJACKING MY OUIJA BOARD? I asked.

I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU.

COME AND SEE ME TOMORROW AFTERNOON. 

WILL I BE WELCOME IN YOUR HOUSE?

NOT REALLY BUT TONIGHT I WANT TO TALK TO SOMEBODY WHO ISNT YOU.

EXPECT ME AT THREE OCLOCK.

ALL RIGHT. FUCK OFF NOW. 

AS YOU WISH. GOODNIGHT DOTTY MY DEAR FRIEND.

DEAR FRIEND? 

But she had gone. AND it was too late to start talking to anyone else so I put the Ouija board away, had a few Cumberland sausages for my supper, went for a wee and a wash, brushed my teeth and went to bed.

 

 

She’ll be here in just over an hour and I don’t know what she wants. I spent the morning trying to stay calm but after I’d had my dinner (Cumberland sausage sandwiches so the smell will linger and she’ll realise what she’s been missing) I had a little panic attack, then another, then another, then another, then another, then another. And I can feel another one coming on now so I’m going to crush up a packet of beta-blockers and stir them into a glass of laudanum then hopefully I’ll be able to cope with her when she arrives.

I’ll let you know what happens.

 

 

Dotty Needs A Bit Of Help Please

 

There’s something strange afoot in Dottyworld. Mischief is being made somewhere, somehow and I need to get it sorted before something unfixable happens. As you should know by now I don’t have any mirrors in my house, nor do I have any shiny surfaces. It’s hard to catch a glimpse of myself ANYWHERE and that’s how I like it, if I wanted mirrors I wouldn’t have smashed them all. But this afternoon, when the sun shone bright through the window and hit the lid of my frying pan, I DID catch a glimpse of myself (more than a glimpse – about 7 seconds worth of glimpse before I jumped back, which doesn’t sound long but you try looking at something for 7 seconds and it’s longer than you think it should be).

I say I caught a glimpse of myself – well that’s not quite true because although I SHOULD have caught a glimpse of myself I didn’t, I caught a long 7 second glimpse of LITTLE EMILY. Except little Emily went home early this morning to make sure Charlotte isn’t taking the piss out of Anne again by getting her to do all the cleaning. And she hasn’t been back since, and she isn’t due back till tomorrow.

So how did I see her in the frying pan lid?

Little Emily is dead – I’ve seen her grave many times over the years, I know she’s in there but obviously SHE isn’t in there, and anyway it’s not a secret that I SEE DEAD PEOPLE, lots of people see dead people, they even make telly programmes about people who see dead people so it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But seeing dead people when it should be ME I’m seeing is a bit eerie.

At first I thought maybe it’s because we’ve become such good friends and I see her face much more than I see my own and the facial recognition part of my brain has forgotten what MY face looks like so it slapped little Emily’s face onto the frying pan lid instead.

Then I thought I wonder if it’s me, I wonder if I’ve finally lost it, but then I thought ‘No, Dotty, don’t be daft, you’re mental but you’re not fucking MENTAL‘.

Then I thought it must be something to do with little Emily’s ectoplasm, maybe it’s fucked up because she’s doing something she shouldn’t be doing like eating too many of my Cumberland sausages, or trying to follow Rah Rah Rasputin on Just Dance 2 (or 3? I can’t remember, she puts it on herself, I don’t like it), or killing wabbits for her wabbit pies, or looking after Branwell when he’s in a fugue, or arguing with Charlotte, or too much writing writing writing, or any number of things she does that I don’t even know about, who knows what she gets up to on that fucking moor every morning, there are more dead people roaming around up there than soft Mick, she could be doing anyTHING with anyONE of them.

All or none of these things could be the cause of what happened earlier and that’s what I need help with – knowledge of ghosts. If any of you know anything at all about ghosts will you tell me please so I can try and work out what’s wrong with little Emily and why she appeared on my face? I don’t want to lose her, she’s the best friend I’ve ever had.

Thank you.

 

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