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...

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

The Boy Forgets His Keys

*mutter mutter... mumble mumble...*
Fast asleep. Away in the land of nod am I when...

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

No! Not the polis. Not a hoor demanding sanctuary. But the boy. He has forgotten his keys.

Sleepily I let him in. "Sorry, I forgot my keys, the buzzer isn't working and my phone ran out of batteries" he gasps.

"So how did you get into the building?" I ask, when I've woken up a bit. "Was the door on the latch?"

"Nope" says he.

"Did you press The Nice Council Man With The Drainrod's buzzer?" I ask.

"Nope" says he.

"Punter leaving let you in?"


"Oh. So how did you get in then?"

"I stood outside and shouted up at the window until Master First Floor shouted some abuse out at me. Then he let me in. Once he found out I wasn't punter..."

Brave lad.

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