my flatmate and i
just got back from dinner to see the french doors on her bedroom balcony were open. shit, shit, burglar!

except that the flat is way up on the third floor of a victorian mansion block and nobody could have climbed up there. right?

still, we opened the front door very carefully and peered round. nothing there. looked in her room. nothing there. crept into the kitchen, hand in hand. nothing there.

sneaked quietly into the lounge, not wanting to alert the burglar to our presence and maybe get twatted over the skull with our own hammer (from my pink toolkit). OH MY GOD, there was, there was a massive lump of a huge burglar hiding behind the sofa. we both froze. then she screamed and i swore. she may have shat herself. i'm not sure.

then we both realised it was just the spare duvet left over from the weekend thrown over the desk........... not a burglar or a rapist or even a tramp.

what a pair of twats.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Mon 4 Jun 2007, 22:33, Reply)