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...

Monday, May 07, 2007

Remember that time there was a naked man in your back garden?

A friend's dad brought up the subject a couple of weekends ago "Remember that time there was a naked man in your back garden?"

Initially there was a bit of confusion over which of three incidents he was referring to.

Was he talking about...

1) When there was a naked man knocking on my door in a hotel a couple of years back. (No. I hadn't ordered one.)

2) The actual incident he was referring to where a young couple stopped for a bit of midnight rumpy pumpy under a bush in a park in town (not anywhere near my back garden, but I think he was referring to The Grey Toon as my back garden) and some cad ran off with their clothes for a laugh. (So funny I might actually do a seperate post on this)

3) The time a Hoor phoned the police because there was "A Man" in our back garden.

I won't bother going in to 1) or 2) here... but ahahaha... 3) is definitely worth a mention.

It was about 11 o'clock and I was just having me pre-bed cup of cocoa and making sure my night-cap was sitting demurely on me head when there was a bit of a noise coming from the back garden. I peered down. Some of the Grey Toon's finest constabulary had been called in by the current Hoor-In-Residence. It was summer and the windows were open, so I could hear the lot.

"I sor 'im I did! Froo me winda! I sorrr 'im!"

"Can you tell us exactly what it was you saw, Madam?" asks Mr Policeman (Hah. he got it wrong there. She wasn't the madame... Just one of thae hoors!) (Obviously I couldn't see them, but I can imagine him looking her up and down, taking in her undoubtedly fantastic outfit, wondering if this is all part of some punter's fantasty...)

"'E were all runnin' arand! Out 'ere! All frantic like! Not right for a wumman ter be alonnnne in 'er flat with that type runnin around!" (Pause, as Mr Policeman digests this, wonders how long she was intending to be alone and wondering exactly what "that type" must be for a Hoor to be objecting.)

She continued. "All long 'aired 'e woz! Wearing dark cloves! Runnin arand! I'd check them outhaases I wud!"

And then there was a switching on of a flashlight followed by a shriek from the over exciteable hoor who saw a shadow move or something. (Perhaps she'd been watching the Ring. Ahahaha.) The light from the flashlight bobbed about the garden, highlighting the whirley, abandoned lawnmower and the empty shells that are our sheds. Nice Mr Local Bobby then Proceeded to check the sheddies. A process which involved some murmurings of interest as the Bobby and his companion discovered The Godfather's stash*.

They prodded around in the sheds for another minute or so before there was a subdued "Ewwww!" as the WPC trod on something unsavoury and then they decided that there was clearly no one there.

"Well, naebd'y there" said Mr Bobby. "But if there's any more carrying on, just give us another phone."

"'Ain't right." muttered the Hoor as they took her back into the tenement, "Folks runnin' arand all dressed in black. Likley to give a lass an 'art attack it is!"

Poor Hoor. I'd hate to be frightened by a shadowy face looking into my boudoir. Mind you, maybe it wasn't all that sinister, maybe she should have checked the window for a box of Milk Tray...

*The Godfather was a Brando-esque, sinister, portly gent with terrifying eyes who occupied the flat the Council Man lived in. His shed was, and still is, filled with bikes and TVs (of the electrical, not ladyboy variety) and other suspicious boxes. The neighbours and I intend to have a good rummage some day to clear up space for the multiplying bikes and also to see if we can find any hoards of cash/drugs/things to sell on ebay).

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