It was the night Big T and Agnes returned from France after several months. It had been a long journey, they were very tired and discombobulated. We all went to bed looking forward to a good night’s sleep and a refreshed morning. Sadly it wasn’t to be.
At 2am we were woken by our loud and very drunk upstairs neighbour stumbling in the front door.
Ah, memories of Chipgate in the early days when said neighbour fell up the stairs and threw his chips all over the hall. I’d had to tell him off then but apparently he’d relapsed.
Mr Chips then proceeded to have a very loud and drunken phone call outside our door as it seemed he’d left his luggage in the taxi he’d just left. Not exactly surprising.
I opened the door to tell him to shut the fuck up only to realise that the front door to the street was wide open.
Disorientated, Agnes nipped out between my legs, ran out of the front door and up the road at full Terrier pelt.
I flung over the door and in a short silk nightie and bare feet ran up the road like a lunatic escaping from the asylum after her.
Agnes, as previously mentioned, can run like a bat out of hell and it took everything I had to catch up with her. Luckily she detoured up a front path and I was able to corner her by someone’s front door. It didn’t bear thinking about what might have happened.
With the small furry escape artist held tightly in my arms I stomped angrily back inside, telling drunken Mr Chips to close the door and keep the noise down, slamming the door behind me.
Emerging from the bathroom Big T seemed confused as to the recent turn of events. I got back into bed fuming whilst my feet tingled from their nighttime exertion.
The rest of the night was spent listening to Mr Chips repeatedly open the front door to look for his taxi.
Inconsiderate to say the least and no apology forthcoming. Outrageous behaviour.
London flat living, not all it’s cracked up to be!