BROMLEY! THE SORT of sleepy suburbia that should be the bed-manufacturing capital of the world. I was going to claim what was rightfully mine. I rang the doorbell and got no response. I pressed harder. The bell button felt strangely soft and pliant. I looked up. There was the grinning face of Bounteous Brenda. I had been trying to gain her attention by inadvertently fondling her right nipple. I wasn’t surprised. She was built like a barn door, so could easily have been mistaken for a large front door. Complete with knockers.
“Ooh, hello Eric, I’ve always liked men with a firm touch,” she purred as most of my clothing disintegrated under her grasp.
“Listen, Brenda . . . Ha! Ha! Ha! Stoppit!” I struggled. “I’ve come here to get one thing straight.”
“Oh, I think we’ll manage that, alright, lover boy. Despite all the money my love life has been lack-lustre. No one’s lusted after me at all. And then you turn up and press all the right buttons. Now, come in and take this shoe horn and bicycle pump . . . ”
Later, a charred, worn-out relic caught the night bus to Chingford. I don’t live in Chingford. I just thought that, in my state, I wouldn’t be so noticeable there.
Eric Preet’s Week of Sins continues tomorrow!