Nothing Nice About Unice

22-03-2014 Saturday

Our new neighbour is moving in today and I don’t like it and I don’t like her. Yesterday she did the same thing to us as she did to Mr Bent: barging into our house without an invite and just talking for hours on end. First she talked about herself, then about nearly everybody in the street and then she tried to get personal information from us. She hasn’t even moved into her new house in the street and already she knows everybody and everything. How in the world did she do that? Mum and Dad did not want to seem rude so they let her come in and stay for a while. They even offered her tea and biscuits. I would have offered some stuffing had somebody asked me; but I wasn’t asked. I guess they wanted to get on her good side, as they probably don’t want to be part of Unice’s gossips. What would it take for Mum and Dad to understand that everybody is going to end up a character in her gossips? Me thinks that she’s been into all of those houses and was probably offered tea and biscuits by most of the people, yet, here she is telling us all the latest gossips on them. That’s not a way to treat people and if it were up to me, she’d be out her house before she had even gotten the chance to move in there.
I wrote quite a long story this morning because I was nominated for the Liebster Award. I didn’t know if I would have the time to come back and write some more, but luckily I did. As I said yesterday I was going to tell Mum and Dad about Evelyn. All day long I had been thinking of a good way to start. The entire conversation had been going through my head in hundreds of different ways with just as many different outcomes. Also, I was making excuses all the time for not going downstairs to tell them. Most of the times I’d just say to myself that it was not the right time yet. Truth is there’s no right time or place for these things. Best thing is to just blurt it out.
Slowly I walked down the stairs trying not to make a sound for no apparent reason. Looking round the corner to see what they were doing. Dad was watching a film with lots of shooting scenes in it and Mum was reading some sort of magazine. I tried to walk into the room as casual as casual and said,’ Hey, did you hear Arthur’s got this amazing new girlfriend!?’ I just stood there in the middle of the room staring from one parent to the other waiting for some sort of reaction. They were looking at me and at each other in turns and I guess that they were both waiting for the other to say something about this.
Of all the scenes that had been going through my head, this wasn’t one of them. First thing Dad said to Mum,’ You owe me a fiver.’ Followed by a,’ Well, Arthur, as long as you don’t get into trouble and use a condom.’ Mum hushed him and took me to the kitchen for a talk. She made me some tea, took out some biscuits and said we should celebrate this moment a little. Then as we were drinking our tea she started asking all kinds of questions about Evelyn, a lot of which I couldn’t answer. I wrote her an IOU for the answers and she said she’d talk to Dad about this. He’ll get used to the idea. Also, Mum would like to meet her, but I’m not sure about that. I’m kind of relieved and I think it went pretty well. That’s it for today. I have written an awful lot, more than enough. See me tomorrow. 

Amelia Dyer – the beginning

20140127_23113327-01-2014 Monday


So, as I was saying, I was making tea for us and Mr Bent came into the kitchen with his dowsing rod in his hands. He looked at the rods and played with them a little. Trying to hold them in different ways to make different geometrical shapes. While he was fidgeting with those darn things he said, in his thoughtful deep dark voice,’ You know, I’ve actually never quite understood these things.’ That’s when he threw them out of the window.

We stared at each other for a couple of seconds and then burst out in laughter. You should have seen the look on his face. He was dead serious when he said it and just chucked them out like that. I hope nobody was walking by at that very moment. He said he had something better for me. Well, actually, two things. Another story, and, what was even better, a book! The book he had been looking for wasn’t for him; it was for me. I made a picture of it to show you. It has got all kinds of freaky ghost stories about London. Sometimes I wish school made us read these kinds of books, they are way more interesting than things like ‘Gone with the wind’ or ‘Jane Eyre’

When tea was ready we sat ourselves down in sitting room, somewhere amidst all those books. Mr Bent said it was ok to just make a chair out of books if I wanted to. I thought it would a bit disrespectful, so I just threw some books on the floor and sat down on the sofa (I know, bad idea) while Mr Bent settled himself on one of the few … no, rephrase … the only free chair in the room. Which, as you can understand, wasn’t free anymore now.

He asked me if I had ever heard of a woman called Amelia Dyer. The name didn’t really ring a bell. Even after thinking really hard with my little thinker I couldn’t think of anyone who goes by that name. Even though I kept thinking Mr Bent was already saying it was useless to go on thinking. Amelia Dyer has been dead for a long time now; for over a century already. The world might be better off without her, too. She was not the nicest of woman.

‘For this story,’ as he added a little more bass to his voice,’ I have to take you back to the late 19th century. It were different times then, what with Jack the Ripper about, stirring up life in London. Great many killings were going on at that time and not all of them were done by dear ol’ Jacky.’

A loud noise of things falling filled the room.  It made an awful racket. We looked round us to see if we could see what had happened. A bunch of books fell down from one of the shelves and on their way down they had knocked over a quite inexpensive vase that shattered into pieces as it hit a very thick book. Mr Bent couldn’t be bothered. He took of sip of his tea, which was still piping hot, and swallowed it as if his throat was made of lead. Maybe that comes with old age, I dunno.

I will have to continue my story tomorrow. I can assure that it is going to be amazing. Though it’s a bit sad too. My bed is calling me and I can hear it calling me over the song I’ve been hearing in my head all day. Does everybody have that? A song that just gets stuck in your head for days and you can’t help but humming it or singing it in your head. The most frustrating thing is that I keep on repeating one bit of the song because I forgot the lyrics to the rest of it. All day long I’ve been walking around singing the same two lines, then I pause for a bit – there are more lines but I just don’t know the words – and finish with the last line of the verse and head into the first line of the chorus ending in a lalala, because I just don’t know the rest of the bleeding song anymore. I hope I am the only who has this, I wouldn’t want anybody else to suffer like this. See me tomorrow.

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.