It’s warm in my house, a good, solid 30 degrees (Celsius) at all times. If it drops any lower than that I open the windows, where the heat from the fire pits can warm the living room up to a good temperature.
Imagine my shock, then, when I stepped out of the portal into the cold of an English I wished I’d brought a jumper. I tell you, you can never expect it to be warm in England, not even in August. I had to rub myself warm. No, not like that. You should wash out your filthy mind, you know, before you find yourself in the Circle of the Lustful.
That’s not as pleasant as it sounds, you know. It’s the Circle of the Lustful, not the Circle of the Happily Satiated. Imagine a time in your life when you were desperate for sex and didn’t get any; where masturbation didn’t result in an orgasm and neither a cold shower nor the porn on the home cinema did anything to assuage the desire. Now imagine always feeling like that. Forever.
Where was I? Oh yes, rubbing my arms and putting the kettle on. A cup of tea will always warm me from the inside, assuming Harold has left any milk in the fridge.
I hadn’t of course. There was some of Julie’s red-top skimmed milk but I loath that. I’d rather have the blue-top full fat or better still, the full cream of gold-top.
This called for drastic action: I’d have to fetch it myself.
I opened the door and looked out into the grey light of morning. Birdsong serenaded me as I stumped down to the gate. That’s the trouble with a gated driveway. It keeps out the salesmen and the Jehovah’s Witnesses but it also prevents the milkman leaving the milk at the back door where it’s handy.
I flapped my wings to get my circulation flowing. Why can’t milkmen be born with Santa-esque properties of teleportation? That would solve a lot of problems not least of which would be to save the foil tops from the rages of the local blue-tit population
I paused and sniffed. There was rain on the way but something else was in the air. I could detect the trace of a woman walking through the grounds. It wasn’t one of the girls: Gillian doesn’t leave a scent, Felicia always smells of dog, even if she bathes in Chanel and Julie’s scent is always combined with that if Wrack, her imp.
I dropped the two milk bottles into my pocket, sealing them inside with the spell of closing (I bet you wish you could do that) and wandered into the woods. The trail was stronger there. Someone had walked up the path to Lovers Leap alone and not returned.
I picked up my pace. At one point, where the path overlooked the front of the Manor and the stables, there was a large pile of scrunched-up leaves. She’d sat there for a while to cover her scent with leaf mould, probably watching the house and waiting for Gillian to leave.