The lift doors opened and I made for the door, moving to one side to let the manicured brunette with the ugly but expensive handbag step in. "It's nawt!" she exclaimed, as I stepped out past her. I smiled in what I hoped was a confused but pitying manner, wondering what it was that wasn't but not wanting to embarrass either of us by stopping to ask. Southside Dublin accents can be an awful handicap sometimes, all those mangled vowel sounds and unattractive drawls, and hers was a particularly obnoxious one.
I rounded the corner and stuck my key in the lock, except I didn't, because it wouldn't fit. Because it wasn't my door.
"It's naught."
My presumptuousness and I, however, live on the first floor.
I rounded the corner and stuck my key in the lock, except I didn't, because it wouldn't fit. Because it wasn't my door.
"It's naught."
My presumptuousness and I, however, live on the first floor.
