Oh dear Lord!
You should see what Harold is wearing today. He’s got this really smart business suit on (leather, naturally, since he’s symbiotically attached to it) with a stray hat. I could cope with the hat, ‘tis true, if it wasn’t for the feather he’s stuck into the band at a… jaunty… angle. I was going to say ‘gay’ but that’s got a different meaning since I used it in the seventies. He looks truly preposterous in it and not least because he left the price tag hanging at the back.
Incidentally, you may have noticed my expression of shock at the beginning of this entry. No, I have not ‘turned to the light’ at all; the Lord I was referring to was the Lord Belphegor, my sponsor in the clawing to reach the exalted ranks of a level 6 Soul Collector. Only 4,387 to go. With any luck I should make it by the end of the month.
I’ve had to put Gillian on a tight leash today. Not literally, you understand. She’s not a werewolf like Felicia but a young vampire. Young to me, anyway. She’s twice Harold’s age but that doesn’t seem to bother either of them. They have some semblance of love going on there. I know Harold’s besotted with her and she is at least not indifferent to his advances.
The problem has come about because Harold has a rival in the bowling club. I may have mentioned this before, but it’s an ongoing struggle. Harold is very phlegmatic about it. He smiles and laughs at her antics with a shake of his head and a notation in his diary. Gillian, on the other hand, is like a Rottweiler on heat, ready to rip off the bint’s arm and beat her with the wet end.
I had a quiet word with her. “Let Harold sort this out on his own,” I said. “He’s willing to just slip quietly into the background, biding his time and leaving the idiot woman to her tortured conscience. He won’t give up his bowling -- it’s his passion after all – but look at improving his skills with a different club.”
She gave me a hard stare. Trust me on this. Paddington’s got nothing on this girl when it comes to staring. “Why should I let her get away with it?” she asked. “She hurt the man I lo-- like quite a lot. She deserves to suffer.”
“Just leave it to fate to sort out,” I said. “Fate and the crate of moles I’ve just picked up from the RSPCA.”
Devious has brought me a cream horn.
That sounds like a nice gesture but I’m instantly suspicious. When did you ever hear of an imp giving away food unless it’s expected? I’ve put it on my desk (Harold’s desk, really. I don’t have one of my own for the sound business and financial reason of, as Harold puts it, I do bugger all.) It’s staring at me, its single eye bleeding a cocktail of bovine extraction and strawberry preserve over a pile of papers and bills for the shop and the pages of a paperback about shoes. Don’t ask me why Harold is reading about shoes. I’ve told him often enough the red f—me heels don’t suit his huge calves.
Ah! Light bulb moment.
I worked it out. This is actually Harold’s cream horn and Devious is hoping that by eating it I’ll get into trouble. I’ll give it to Harold and tell him it’s from the imp, only I’ll lick out the jam first and replace it with mustard.