‘Hello,’ came the voice through my letterbox. ‘Is there anyone in?’
I wasn’t really in so I decided not to answer. It was my prerogative, as the person who was out/in, after all.
‘I know you’re there,’ the elderly female voice persisted.
I decided that I’d test her theory and once again failed to reply.
‘I’ve brought foo-ood,’ she tried.
I wasn’t hungry, therefore carried on with my mission. Plus, I find people who sing terrible enticements into me door holes repugnant and not a little creepy.
‘It’s las-ag-na!’ She added, as if I would then fold.
I surmised that she was a nut job, who was, in all reality, offering me fois gras on kittens eye balls.
Nobody in the present day and age makes lasagna for a new neighbour. It just wasn’t done.
Soon enough she gave up and tottered down the garden path.
I watched as the psycho, armed with her ridiculous oven dish, struggled to close the gate after she left.
What’s all that about? She actually closed my gate. Who does that?
A lunatic, that’s who.