24th August 2017
“Tish and fippsy!” I exclaimed, cursing like a sailor who had just taken a kraken to the sweetbreads.
    I usually reserved such coarse language for supermarket openings but something was rotten in the state of Denmark. And by Denmark, I mean the guttering that lined the roof of my house, because dangling from there I spied some very unwanted guests in the form of Mort, the travelling spine salesman, and his winged children, who I assumed had carried their vagabond father unto his squatter’s perch ‘pon the peak of my dwelling.
    “Get down from there, Mort, you damn squatter!” I cried, my socks pulsing with rage.
    Grinning, Mort hurled obscenities down at me like naughty rain in between gulps from the drum of cooking oil affixed to his back, his trademark method of keeping his own spine so supple and shiny. At the same time, his freakish spawn frolicked amidst the rainwater and leaves which the guttering had collected.
    I’d see them all in Hell before this was over.
    I went to bed about ten.