I live in a rather lively area of the city. In more ways than one. Upmarket. A little wonky during the night. And on the way between town and the harbour. So apart from the restaurant trade there is a lot of through traffic. On foot.
Remember: I wake easily and I have a vantage point. No, I am not a curtain twitcher. Mainly because I don’t have curtains. But you can’t ignore people’s plight. The Angel has strictly forbidden me to go downstairs and intervene in any fights but call the police instead. Which I have done three times over the last year. Yes, that’s how exciting life is. The only time I didn’t [phone the police] was when a guy was beaten to a pulp, and I mean pulp, at four in the morning and I couldn’t find the fucking phone. Still feel awful about that. I did follow it up but there was no report of damage either with A&E or the police. His corpse probably been concreted into the road works going on at the time.
By way of intro to this post the above is abysmal, and budding writers do take note: That’s not the way to get your readers’ attention.
I am not a lady in lavender but have recently taken to most questionable fancy: Watching, mostly British, crime. Give me Poirot (David Suchet) and I am your Belgian truffle, melting in his hand. Give me Miss Marple and I wish I lived where she does. Or in Oxford: Lewis and the most gorgeous Hathaway (gorgeous not only on account of how a suit hangs so very well off him but because he is so educated, eloquent, witty, dry, let’s not get carried away). Where was I? Crime.
Here is a most vexing question: When all those detectives and prosecuting lawyers ask witnesses and suspects a question how come they always know the time and any other detail? And what was missing off the mantle piece or a wall. I am a pretty observant person but I can tell you for a fact that I’d be useless. Absolutely useless. Who wore what when? Who ate what? Who spoke to whom? I haven’t got the faintest idea. Which – come to think of it – makes me an ideal victim.
Stab me now.