When someone decides to rap at my bedroom door before I've even had the chance to open my eyes in the morning, it's a sure sign there may be trouble ahead.
Unlike the song, I don't have the music and romance to sustain me.
No, I have to get up and get on with it.
Flatmate never knocks at the door unless there's news of some sort to impart - and Monday was a classic.
Bonkety! Bonkety!
"Yer?"
"Guess what?"
"No - surprise me."
"Osama bin Laden's dead."
"What, REALLY?"
"Yeah - President Obama was just on the telly telling everybody."
"Well, I hope they've made quite sure it is him, otherwise there'll be trouble."
Last time he did this, Michael Jackson had just died. Of course, I'm a total and utter ghoul, so I asked: "What of? Nasty dose of car crash? Nutty fan shot him on the doorstep?"
Neither of these incidents beats the earthquake, though.
Some years ago, I was rudely awakened in the middle of the night by a loud sharp cracking sound. Suddenly, items placed on the shelf above my radiator tumbled to the floor.
"Bloody hell, what was that?" I shrieked. "An earthquake?"
Next morning, bonkety, bonkety.
"Yer?"
"Yes."
No comments:
Post a Comment