I awake to find my face imprisoned in plastic and the nauseating fragrance of stale cigarettes making unwelcome progress in my nasal cavity. It’s dark and uncomfortable and I bring myself to an upright position. I don’t know where I am or where I’ve been. I put my hands up to my head and let my fingers crawl across the moulded aperture. I hear someone stir beside me and tentatively reach out and touch hair, then a face. I recoil as the face suddenly moves and I hear a low, sleepy female moan.
I slowly stand up from what seems to be a sofa and get the feeling that I am much taller than I actually am. I pat myself down and realise that not only am I naked but it is pitch black and I don’t know where my clothes are. I pull at the plastic but it won’t move. I try and see through the slits in front of my eyes and then I notice a rectangle of muddy amber just ahead of me. I stretch out my arms and zombie over to it until my hands touch cold glass. I then get down on all fours and scrape along the carpet until I find some clothing and eliminate by touch what can’t be mine. After finding a pair of trousers, a shirt and some shoes I decide to sod the underwear and sweater and leave. I dress quickly and and turn back to the window. I feel along the sill until I find the handle. I ease the window and it slides sideways as far as it will go. I give myself a couple of deep breaths and pull myself up onto the sill and drag one leg up followed by the other. I wait there for a moment to listen for any movement. Then I count to five, missing out two, three and four, and roll out.
A second later my fall is broken by lots of objects that break very easily and very noisily and, unable to grab onto anything, I find myself sliding off a ledge and hitting the floor right side first. A long groan finds its way from inside me as I lay there stiff as a board. The two slits in front of my eyes suddenly become lines of white light.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” comes the northern female voice.
“Where am I?” is all I can say.
The voice is closer this time, “The bloody kitchen.”
An arm pulls me up and leans me back against something solid.
“Oh, yeh,” I say. “I was just getting a glass of water.”
“Really,” she says flatly.
“Yes.”
“Well why didn’t you come through the door instead of climbing through the bloody conservatory window?” Her voice moves away again. “Just look at me bloody plates. And why are you still wearing that bloody Porky Pig mask?”
“Is that what it is? It won’t come off.”
All of a sudden the plastic gets ripped from my face and I shut my eyes to block out the kitchen strip light.
“And,” she continues, “you’re wearing my blouse which, by the way, you don’t have the tits for.”
I open my eyes gradually to let everything come into focus and look at the woman standing before me wearing nothing but an old Bay City Rollers tee shirt.
“Bay City Rollers?” I say, straightening myself up.
“Not again,” she says wearily. “You went on about this tee shirt last night for nearly a bloody hour while we were at it. I haven’t heard anyone prattle on like that since my first bloody husband. And all he ever talked about was bloody mushrooms.”
“I don’t really like mushrooms,” I say vacantly.
“Just as well the silly old bugger’s dead then,” she says. “Now then; are you coming or staying? Because it’s four o’clock in the bloody morning and I need my beauty sleep.”
You’re not bloody joking either, I think to myself.
“I reckon I could probably lie down for a bit,” I say weakly.
“Right,” she sighs. “Well, come on then. Maybe this time you might be able to make it up the stairs.”
She holds out a hand and I take it. I follow her out of the kitchen and we start up the staircase. As we get to the top she turns and gives me a kiss.
“So what did your husband do?” I ask.
“A hundred and ten into a traffic island,” she says and turns away, pulling me towards a doorway.
“What was your name again?” I ask as we enter.
“That’s funny,” she replies, “I was about to ask you exactly the same thing.”
