#125

Mr Bartholemew is a fat man with short arms. He wears his trousers buckled up to his tits and has a huge, smooth, egg shaped groin. His face looks like it was put together in a hurry and he has a retarded out-turned bottom lip, polished pink like the inside of a seashell. Apart from being one of my 'odd numbered' neighbours, he is also the owner of Marlowe – possibly even his biological father. That however gives him absolutely no right to be in my front yard at gone midnight, sauntering around on tip toes and doing pirouettes to the tinkle of the garden gate. It was like watching some cartoonish ballet, this huge fairy of a man, his squat arms held graciously by his sides, flitting around in the shadows en pointe. But Mr Bartholemew was not here to give an impromptu audition for the Royal Ballet Company; he was, in fact, out on the thieve.

From behind the curtains I spied my neighbour as he expertly opened up one of the bin bags with the toe of his thick orthopaedic shoes; nosed through the foliage of the window boxes; and searched out every nook and cranny of the yard with his greedy little eyes. When he didn't find what he was looking for he let out a short whistle and Marlowe came slinking in out the dark. As the catch on the gate tinkled once more, Mr Bartholemew sidled back across the window, his giant shadow casting me into utter blackness.

ACT 2 commenced with a distasteful close-up of my neighbour's humongous backside. Mr Bartholemew was bent over and trying to push Marlowe away. For a moment I thought the seat of his pants was going to bust wide open. Suddenly Mr Bartholemew's left arm struck out and he gave Marlowe a swift backhander across the nose. Marlowe kinda sunk to his belly and pulled back. Then he rattled his head, gave a confused snort, 'Woofed!' and disappeared.

Mr Bartholemew rose. He was holding the spare Morrison's plimsol which I had been using as a makeshift dog bowl to feed his hound. He passed the shoe under his nose and smiled. He had found what he had come for: free, top quality Rabbit and Gravy dog food.

Now looking like any other opportunistic thief in history, Bartholemew gave a rash clumsy look around, and thinking he hadn't been spotted, returned to his old flat-footed self and bundled out the gate. With plimsol in hand, he made off, stamping and heaving into the night.

For a moment I remained where I was behind the curtain. I listened as Mr Bartholemew's flapping footsteps slowed then quietened down to a walk. When they stopped altogether, I heard a familiar “Wooof!” then a not so familiar “Yellppp!” as Marlowe whined out in pain.

At first I felt angry, then I didn't care and then I smiled smugly. There would be no black eye's, bruised ribs or busted lips tonight. My decision not to act the hero had been a good one. Mr Bartolemew had just proved himself a very troubled, violent and dangerous man.

4 comments:

  1. There is no excuse for animal cruelty.

    If you don't kill Mr. Bartolemew I will.

    I am more 'troubled, violent and dangerous' than he could ever hope to be...

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  3. For Once I agree with Her Above.

    Pirouettes... orthopaedic shoes... short arms... troubled, violent and dangerous???

    What is your problem with telling the truth? saying what actually happened? That Mr Bartholemew, scared you was poisonning his dog, entered the yard and confiscated a bizarre plimsol full of dog food. Then he left!

    And in every post, someone always ends up with their arse or cock in your face! Your writing comes from a place of sexual frustration. It is that shallow. I've never read such self-absorbed, talentless, hysterical and absurd crap in all my life. It's obvious, at least to me (and probably every one else) that those Barbara Cartland novels you are so fond of reading are having a devastating influence upon your pen.

    Give up, Tristy... Just fucking give up! Leave the writing to the professionals.

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  4. If I find out you've been lying to us all along Mr. Spencer...

    No. I refuse to believe it.

    It's that John trying to stir it up.

    I've never met anything that lived in a wheelchair that understood the meaning of The Truth.

    Like you I have suffered from their lies.

    I hope he's the liar anyway.

    For your sake.

    And The Nerdettes' sake.

    They are terrified that you might be lying about Mr B living on the odd-numbered side of the road.

    That would throw ALL their calculations out...

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