My arrival in the small welsh valley in Pembrokeshire where my family live is greeted with shrieks and dramatic cries
“It’s the Witch! Run!”
I am prodded and hit and bodies sprawl across the cottage as I try to escape. I feel strangely appreciated. My plan to be the mad auntie seems to be on track. Many snarls, pokes and reluctant goodnights later and I’m left alone with just my parents.
“Woodchip” I say “the place is covered in woodchip wall paper”. I’m describing the council flat I will be moving into next Tuesday, for at last the council has said I can move into this flat so they can knock down my current one. I am so relieved that there will definitely be somewhere else to go and I won’t just be chucked out.
I must say I don’t mind being moved on since the current London flat keeps getting the sewage back flow from the other flats in the bath and hand basin. At the start of this year it flooded the flat and ruined several of my favourite books, now it seems to be about to repeat this so the sooner I’m out the better. I feel sorry for the gentleman who is staying there and looking after my cat though.
Woodchip. I’m told it is horrible stuff to remove. Has anyone any suggestions?
I’m staying in the loft in the family home. It’s tiny and secretive with bats living in the rooftop just above it. Appropriate for a witch I feel.
This morning my little nephew Ted tells me he sneaked into the room I’m staying in and smelt under the bed. He then came down to the kitchen where I was having breakfast and smelt me. I smell the same as under the bed apparently. He likes this because it means there are two of me.