Mr Bent’s House

03-01-2014 – Friday

7.00 am

I am not going to talk about my night and how I slept. What was I thinking wanting to become a ghost hunter!? I nearly wet my pants after Mr Bent’s stories. Nearly! I am a big boy now, I am in total control of my bladder. 

Mr Bent’s house is much like ours on the outside, but on the inside it’s totally different. Think of very old furniture, like, the oldest furniture you can think of and then just a little bit older. Mind you, not 14th century old or anything, just 20th century, but – much like his muscles – overused and worn out. He has got this grey and scruffy looking couch, all worn and torn and if you sit down on it you sink all way down to the ground and you can hardly get up from it. That kind of old. Old, but very comfortable (comfortably old?).

When I came in he was just about to make some tea. I asked him if he needed any help, but he just said,’ It’s no use, love, I’m beyond repair.’ I should have known. I keep falling into the same trap, I will never learn. As he put the kettle on, I sat down in the old couch and looked at all the books he has. It’s amazing. Not only must it have cost a fortune, most people would need at least three lifetimes to read all these books.

When Mr Bent came in with tea we sat down at the dinner table. It took me some help to get out of the couch. We filled our cups with typically English tea (you know, with milk and such) and we had some wonderful biscuits with chocolate  on them (ooooh yeah!), then Mr Bent – who’s already quite grey and wrinkled – gave me this old man’s look of a grown-up who wants to tell you something but they’re not really sure whether they should and how to begin. I tried to mimic his expression, but stopped after Mr Bent burst out in laughter. Guess I will have to practise on that look before I get old and grey.

After he had finished laughing, he finally started talking. Mr Bent has got one of those lovely deep dark voices that make you want to listen to him no matter what he’d be talking about. Mum says it’s the liquor talking; I just like to think of him as a natural. I don’t know if Mum was talking about the voice or the stories, though. Anyways, while I was sipping my milky tea, he told me the story of Philip and Sarah Whitehead.

Before I tell you the story, I’ll have to walk Cheddar. Mum has been calling me five times now and I don’t want to find another one of his little presents on the carpet for me to clean up. Next time we’re taking a cat. 

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