Two floors up lives a large and worthless man. Dainty of wrist, bearded and twee, he yesterday presented me with a poem. I put aside my eggs, and my coffee too. After reading the first line – “Little lamb’s tail, who waggled thee?” – I told him as bluntly as I could that it was, like his brown-panted self, vile.
That afternoon, while I was preparing to lie down, he swagged up self-effacingly and produced a re-worked, spoken-word version. “Little tiddle,” he said, “who tiddled thee?”
I’m not usually a peaceful man, but I swore then never again to stir upstairs.
That afternoon, while I was preparing to lie down, he swagged up self-effacingly and produced a re-worked, spoken-word version. “Little tiddle,” he said, “who tiddled thee?”
I’m not usually a peaceful man, but I swore then never again to stir upstairs.
