Sometimes I worry about the Hoors.
They're letting God knows who into their house and I'm sometimes concerned about their safety. They let some really wierd folk in there you know...
Anyway. I've been working away from home for a few days and was really excited about going to the pub this evening. I put on my headphones and bounced down the stairs, sang along and danced past the hoors front door. Then I opened the front door of the block of flats.
And there he stood.
Hands by his side. A slight smile on his unmoving features.
No it couldn't be. Just like when you first see him in the film awaiting Clarisse in his cell at the end of the corridor.
He was actually wearing a boiler suit. Admittedly, it was a kind of faded red... but it was dark and it looked grey!! I screamed. Sorry, but I did. He just stood there. For some reason I apologised for screaming - he didn't bat an eyelid and then moved smoothly past me into the building. I ran to the pub.
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...