Tony the Psychotic Sparrow (to give him his full title) was conspicuously absent on Wednesday. It didn't feel like he'd gone; the letterbox was still shit-spattered and I was still cowering cautiously every time I approached the door, but as the day wore on it became apparent that he'd given up. Or been eaten by a cat. Either way, I felt much reassured by his absence and by Annie's admission that she was the one who'd left the not poisoned peaches tied to the door.
Andrew went out to play poker that evening, and I stayed in to finish my John Connolly book (which is not a great thing to be reading if you're a 'fraidy-cat like me and you're home on your todd). As darkness fell, I switched on every light in the flat and snuggled into bed to wait for Andrew to come home and switch them all off again. I woke at 4am to find him fast asleep beside me. I'd been woken by a knock on the door of the house upstairs. And then another. I could hear the landlords moving about, not answering the door, and I got scared. I woke Andrew, and asked him if he'd locked our door when he got in. He got out of bed to check, but he could hear that whoever was hammering on their door was still up there and he didn't want to draw their attention to us by fumbling with our stiff and stubborn lock. He came back in to me, then we heard thundering steps down the cast-iron stairs and this fucking loo-la came barrelling in through our unlocked door. I nearly died.
Andrew called the Gardaí. Well, he called 911, which luckily connects you to the emergency services anyway. He also bellowed like a bear and stalled the fella for long enough for me to steer him by the shoulders out through the door while Andrew locked it behind him. He was in his 20s, bald and balubas drunk. He was just passing through, it seemed - wanted to go up the bricked-up staircase from our flat to the house upstairs. Seemed surprised to hear that it was bricked-up. He went back upstairs and resumed his knocking, we went back to our bedroom to wait for the Gardaí. They called Andrew to say that there was a car on the way, and as he hung up we heard our visitor land with a thump into our garden, accessible only through the back door in our bathroom or by vaulting the railings and dropping 12ft to the ground. Only that he was so rubbered he'd have broken his legs. He tried to climb in the bedroom window (brave man - Andrew was wild angry on the other side of it) and then hammered on the bathroom door, realising that he was trapped. I sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a wet towel I'd taken from the radiator to cover my modesty when he broke in, and I shivered.
The Gardaí arrived minutes later and picked up our visitor, who had somehow spidermanned his way back out of the garden and onto the street. Andrew went out and gave them a statement, I stayed in and made us some tea. We didn't get much more sleep before the alarm went off at 7.37 and I got up to go to work.
I told Annie about it, this latest chapter in the saga of Strange Shit that's happened at our Door this Week. "Thank God you know it was me who left the peaches" she said "otherwise you'd think you'd been cursed by a witch." She's not wrong.
Andrew went out to play poker that evening, and I stayed in to finish my John Connolly book (which is not a great thing to be reading if you're a 'fraidy-cat like me and you're home on your todd). As darkness fell, I switched on every light in the flat and snuggled into bed to wait for Andrew to come home and switch them all off again. I woke at 4am to find him fast asleep beside me. I'd been woken by a knock on the door of the house upstairs. And then another. I could hear the landlords moving about, not answering the door, and I got scared. I woke Andrew, and asked him if he'd locked our door when he got in. He got out of bed to check, but he could hear that whoever was hammering on their door was still up there and he didn't want to draw their attention to us by fumbling with our stiff and stubborn lock. He came back in to me, then we heard thundering steps down the cast-iron stairs and this fucking loo-la came barrelling in through our unlocked door. I nearly died.
Andrew called the Gardaí. Well, he called 911, which luckily connects you to the emergency services anyway. He also bellowed like a bear and stalled the fella for long enough for me to steer him by the shoulders out through the door while Andrew locked it behind him. He was in his 20s, bald and balubas drunk. He was just passing through, it seemed - wanted to go up the bricked-up staircase from our flat to the house upstairs. Seemed surprised to hear that it was bricked-up. He went back upstairs and resumed his knocking, we went back to our bedroom to wait for the Gardaí. They called Andrew to say that there was a car on the way, and as he hung up we heard our visitor land with a thump into our garden, accessible only through the back door in our bathroom or by vaulting the railings and dropping 12ft to the ground. Only that he was so rubbered he'd have broken his legs. He tried to climb in the bedroom window (brave man - Andrew was wild angry on the other side of it) and then hammered on the bathroom door, realising that he was trapped. I sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a wet towel I'd taken from the radiator to cover my modesty when he broke in, and I shivered.
The Gardaí arrived minutes later and picked up our visitor, who had somehow spidermanned his way back out of the garden and onto the street. Andrew went out and gave them a statement, I stayed in and made us some tea. We didn't get much more sleep before the alarm went off at 7.37 and I got up to go to work.
I told Annie about it, this latest chapter in the saga of Strange Shit that's happened at our Door this Week. "Thank God you know it was me who left the peaches" she said "otherwise you'd think you'd been cursed by a witch." She's not wrong.
