23^rd January 2017

This morning saw me enjoying a delicious breakfast of crumpets and denim, a meal sadly interrupted when the mercurial artist named Squiggly Ronald poured himself into my house through a crack in the skirting board.

    “Alright, Poncho?” Ronald asked me, all the while not failing to notice the exhaust pipe which had been impaled through my face for the past three days after an altercation with the head librarian at my local library.

    I merely nodded in reply, all too aware that despite his artistic bent, Squiggly Ronald fed on spoken words like some kind of language vampire. Ronald was indeed, to borrow a description once shared with me by MC Hammer, “a reet fookin’ odd one, by jingo!”

    “I made you a drawing,” Ronald continued, before delving into his grubby satchel, half-chewed toffees and tiny ceramic apes spilling forth as he rooted like a hog snuffling for truffles.

    Ronald withdrew and displayed the piece of paper on which his filthy fingers had wrought imagery which he called art but which to me looked to be the insane scribbling of a man made of pigeons.

    “That’s shit, Ronald,” I commented, only too late realising my mistake as Squiggly Ronald snatched my words out of the air and gulped them down with relish, as if they were delicious, bite-size portions of Battenberg.

    I quickly reached beneath my seat and brought up the assault rifle which I kept taped there. I spewed hot lead in Ronald’s direction, firing wildly, but too late: Ronald had already fled through the same crack from whence he came.

    Once again Squiggly Ronald had made a supper of my sweet mind-words, but I swore that this would be the last time.