I was awoken by the dog at 4am this morning. She was laying out on the landing – where she sometimes sleeps – and was growling.
“Shhhh”, I whispered, but she continued. I listened, but couldn’t hear anything.
She continued with her growling and I listened more intently. And then I heard a faint rattling noise. It sounded like the gate to the back garden shaking in it’s latch, as if it was windy.
But it wasn’t at all windy.
I got up and craned my neck out of the bathroom window – the only window with a view of the gate. I could just about make out a figure in the shadows, but couldn’t see what he was doing.
Quickly, I pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms and my slippers and dashed downstairs.
Putting the kitchen light on and flinging the door open would be enough to scare off any ne’er-do-well , I thought.
But no. He was still there… one hand atop the 6ft gate.
I rapped his hand with my knuckles and opened the gate. Before me stood a young man in jeans and a t-shirt, leaning against the wall. He was very much the worse for drink.
He was slightly taller than me, and I realised I was pulling myself up to my full height and sucking my belly in as I confronted him.
“What do you think you’re doing!?”, I said in a loud, authoritative voice.
“I live here”, he said, his speech slightly slurred.
“Like fuck, do you”, I said, keeping up the aggressive stance. “I live here… me and my big dog”. I turned and pointed to Saber, who despite all her growling earlier, was now just standing there in the kitchen with her head poking out the door, looking decidedly non-threatening.
“This isn’t 132 High Street?”
“You know it’s not. You’re nowhere near the High Street. Now bugger off.”
He apologised and I watched as he staggered up the road, going in completely the wrong direction for the High Street.
I suddenly realised how cold it was, standing outside topless, at that time of the morning.
I’m glad it was still dark.
Well I should imagine that if he can remember the encounter with a half naked you, it will probably turn him teetotal. If Mrs Masher tells the ladies of the vicinity what they missed I suspect there will be many a fluttering heart at the very thought of you being all butch and masterful.
That pretty much happens already, Dave.
I’m known as quite a catch in these parts and Mrs Masher is often told just how lucky she is to have me.
No, really.
Bloody hell, Masher! I’m proud of you for confronting him. He wasn’t drunk at all – he was swooning at your nipples.
Well, it WAS cold!
You’re so butch. My hero. But you should have kicked him in the nuts, just to remind him – when he woke up – that he mucked about with the wrong house
Kicked him in the nuts?
In my slippered feet?
Are you mad?
Oh lordy, I would have got furter under my duvet!