Hoors? Yeah... Hoors. Prostitutes, Tarts, Hookers, Ladies of Negotiable Affection, call them what you will. For 8 years or so I lived in granite tenement. My Neighbours Were Hoors. Sadly for us all (!?) the brothel was closed down and I moved out of the area. I never did get around to writing about the court case though...

Friday, December 05, 2003

And before I forget...

The *last* time I got the Police involved in the Hoors... Wow. I was so impressed? They were doing just what I would have done in their position.

Thursday evening: I go to the pub. The door is ajar. I have a couple of drinks. I come home. The door is still ajar. I go "hmmm" and wonder if, for any reason, their flat needs airing. (ewwwww)

Friday morning: I leave for work. The door is ajar. I go "hmmm. Must need quite a bit of airing. Perhaps someone is dead in there. Oh well. if it's still open when I get home from work... I'll do something about it"

Friday evening. I come home from work. The door is ajar. I go "Coooooeeeee!" "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" No answer. I prod the door and it creaks like in a horror film. But doesn't move much. No views of the inside of a brothel for me, then... I go upstairs. I phone my friend. We discuss the last victim of Jack the Ripper. (I'm sure I don't need to tell you she was shredded in her room. Not a good thing for my overactive-imagination)... I phone my mum. I tell her I think there's a dead prostitute in the flat in the ground floor and how I shouted "Cooooeeeee!" and "Helloooooo! Is anybody Thereeeee!" but got no answer. I tell her how I prodded the door and how it creaked like in a horror film... She freaks out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I freak out because I've now got my fingerprints on the door of the potential last resting place of my neighbour, a hoor. I phone the Police. They'll be round about 9. I go to the pub.

I return from the pub. The door is still ajar. No sooner am I in the door than the buzzer goes. It's the Police, so I let them in to the building. 10 minutes pass and I'm still drunkenly gawping over the handrail outside my flat eager for gossip (with the security light on and my shadow being cast over the proceedings two floors below). Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me and I go "Cooooeeeee!" No reply. Oh my god. They've been killed tooo! it's MURDER!!! But no. In a typical teenage horror film kind of way I tiptoe down the stairs and go "Helllooooooo? Is anybody Theerrrreeee?" and prod the door open...

And what do I see? Blood spattered all over the walls? No. Kidney on the bedside table and intestines on the shoulder? No.

Two policemen raking through their underwear drawer... that's what.