The Park Crescent Diary.

Entry Nº4

Maisie's been getting on my nerves today. Once she gets something in her head, she never shuts up about it. On and on and on. I wouldn't mind, but most of the time she hasn't got a clue what she's going on about. Talking to Maisie is a bit like going to Bingo. You have to wait for the right number to come up. She gets to the point eventually.

Maisie's got a bee in her bonnet about a new neighbour who moved into the crescent a few weeks ago. To be honest most of the crescent's got a bee in their bonnet about her. The gossip has it she's a transvestite.

Maisie phoned me this morning just to tell me she'd hung some washing on the line.

“I can't tell, Mary” she says, “ whether they're men's underpants or women's knickers. ”

“What colour are they?”

“Well, they're sort of a greyish-white with pink flecks in them.” Something told me she was peeping with her mini-binoculars.

“Try again, you silly cow. Those are your net curtains.”

“White, Mary, They're white!” Anybody would think she'd just discovered America.

“Shame your curtains aren't. Can you see if they're Y-fronts?”

“What's them?”

“ Don't pretend you can't remember what Y-fronts are. You know, they're the ones with the little hole in the front. You used to shove your hand down them and fondle Billy Owen's plonker.”

“I never did.”

“Don't tell lies, Maisie. ”

“Who's Billy Owen, Mary? It's so long ago, I can't remember.”

“The whole school knew what you and him were up to behind the bike sheds. So pull the other one.”

“No, the name doesn't ring any bells.” The lying cow. She was married to him for thirty two years.

“Have they got any frilly bits on'em?”

“No. Do you think they might be unisex?” Truth I was starting to get a bit annoyed at Maisie and her latest obsession. There was only one way to stop all this.

“Okay, lets get back to basics. Have they got skid marks?”

“I can't see from here.” I gave up. When Maisie's on one she can go on for hours. Still, it's her phone bill not mine.

I'm not much of a one for beating around the bush and by then, I'd had enough of all the poncing about. All I wanted this morning was five minutes peace and quiet to snip pictures from the newspaper. I bought three different ones, so there was loads to go at. I hung up on Maisie, went over the road and knocked on his door.

“Have you got a willy or a snatch.” I asked him. He wasn't at all put out. In fact, he seemed very pleasant and made me a cup of tea. He knows how to brew it too. Not like some I could mention.

Well he was pleasant until he started showing me his postcard collection of Skegness beach. Boring old twat. I was in there for two hours. Now that really got the curtains twitching.

I've thought of a way to get my own back. I've invited him round for dinner next week. I'm going to lock the door so he can't get out and show my scrap book collection of Simon Cowell photos. Serves him right.