One Hundred

 

Did I ever tell you about the time we had an infestation of tiny nuns in the kitchen?

They were mostly harmless, of course, and didn't make a peep, but we worried about their safety. There were just so many, we were scared we might drop something, or step on them as they wandered leisurely across the floor. Quite apart from the guilt that would cause, we were also concerned that, if there was a God, there would certainly be some sort of retribution.

And we reasoned that if the divine punishment for harming a nun was going to be bad, it would be doubly so for harming a teeny nun.

So we got a specialist in, who relocated them to a nice miniature church in his auntie's garden. They were quite happy. We counted them as they boarded the mini mini buses: ninety nine in all. We waved them goodbye, with tiny handkerchiefs. 

Then a few days ago, I heard a rustling. I turned my head and spied, out of the corner of my eye, the hundredth nun, on the tiny shelf by the paprika and my fancy tea. She sat quietly, counting her rosary beads and when she turned her head to look, she smiled at me.

Ninety Nine

 

Our Edgar left everything to make something of himself. 

Ninety Eight

 

Not a man, but a fox in disguise. 

Ninety Seven

 

In the middle of the debate This House Believes in Extraterrestrials: Discuss, Professor Forstor rose to his feet in a rage, his face flushed beetroot red.

"This is absolutely preposterous!  The very notion that little green men exist, why, it's poppycock!

Everyone knows they are merely angels taken sick!" 

Ninety Six

Ninety Five

In the corridor of floor sixteen sits an old man in striped pyjamas. He's been there ever since I moved in a year ago and I regard him, with a smile every time I walk past him to the flat. He just stares, into space, with a face that looks like it has been composed out of facial features from at least ten different sources.

Then one day, as I round the stairs (it's good cardio), something is different. He puts his hand out and does not look at me but says, "Now." 

I stop. The elevator doors across the hall open and the most momentous sound bursts out, cheering and wooping. There's a party in the elevator, a party with streamers and balloons, whistles and bright colours. There is (I think, although I can't see) a bear in a hat and girls from a carnival. 

The old man cheers, stretches out his arms and two clowns rush out to pick him up and carry him into the elevator. He smiles and waves at me as he goes - a big smile - and the elevator party receives him with whoops and cheers and singing.

The doors close. The colours and music are gone. I stand alone in the corridor, contemplating the chair he has left behind. 

Ninety Four