Saturday, 23 November 2019

Mr. Creepy - neighbourhood watch - satirical fiction

Most every day I walk from our allotment shed to the new Co-op. It is built on the site of the famous (and famously ugly) world’s largest gasometer.

Very, very nearly every day I see an elderly, ferret faced bloke lurking in his front garden and he nabs most everyone to speak to; for example Person A ...

I don’t qualify for gossip on account of being young(ish) female and wearing a hairstyle that is not sanctioned by the Daily Mail.

I think of this bloke as Mr. Creepy. I’ve nothing against blokes, I’ve nothing against elderly, but I have this allergy to creeps that has proven to be untreatable, even by homeopathy, acupuncture, the threat of acupuncture and bribery.

After Person A has departed, Mr. Creepy nabs the next one who we’ll call Person B, and gossips to them about Person A, and how dire they are. He told a different tale to Person A, believe me.

I thought he’d developed a better side recently when he did condescend to speak to me, despite the hair and such.

‘Got to be open-minded,’ he said.

‘About what sir?’ I inquired.

‘Well, young people’s hair!’ he replied.

He could have talked about something else, of course, like did I have a roof over my head, for example.

Anyway, another bod, a woman nearer his age, came along and I could feel his urgent desire not to be seen talking to me.

I started moving away – typical of me. Then I thought, like buggery I will. So I stayed put! Then I stayed put some more.

The woman positioned herself so as to talk to both of us, and Mr. Creepy did his best to turn his back on me, so I re-positioned and made a point of replying to Mrs. B (Person A having moved on).

It transpired that one of Mr. Creepy’s neighbours has suffered an injury at work and Mrs. B said it was particularly unfortunate because the neighbour, Mr. C, was halfway through re-carpeting his stairs.

Imagine having to stop (I think the neighbour has slipped a disc) and struggle up and down stairs over half-laid carpet, unable to finish the job. Imagine, unable to cook or visit the shops.

Mr. Creepy seemed most concerned and wanted to hear all the details.

‘He’s going to volunteer to help,’ I thought.

Like hell.

On my way back from the co-op today I saw Mr. Creepy patrolling his tiny front garden with a large club. He uses the large club to attempt mutilation of neighbourhood cats that make a point (God bless ‘em) of pooing in his garden.

‘How is Mr. C?’ I inquired.

‘How should I know?’ he grunted.

‘I wondered if his back was any better. If he’s able to get downstairs or to the shop,’ I said.

‘I’ve worries enough of my own,’ he said, and returned indoors to talk to two young blokes who appeared to be working in his hallway.

One of them came out to their nominally white Transit van, whistling merrily, so I asked him how work was going, as one does.

'Okay mate,’ he said (my hair sometimes conceals my gender - and species, apparently - to the short-sighted and/or terminally thick), ‘we’re just doing Mr. Creepy’s new stair carpet. Be in the pub by 5p.m.

I nearly threw up in disgust.

The assertiveness training is working though. I still get these terrible fits of blushing and suchlike, but I resolved that if I was going to be sick I’d make sure I did it on Mr. Creepy! Or at least in his garden.

In fact I wasn’t sick, so I went back into town to the market and found some fish heads for the local cats. I left them in Mr. Creepy’s garden. The moggies know where to look . . .

Tags:  community, funny, fiction,  open minds, short satire stories


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