As I always say, I don’t seriously believe in the Ghost of Hillborough House, lurking – in defiance of logic – around the attic and Room 17. Nevertheless, I can’t help but shiver when, halfway through the second run of a Mozart quartet, I hear someone I can’t see, humming sadly along.

Hitting the car didn’t hurt much but I was quite upset when, instead of the stairway to heaven coming down, I fell into Hell. Many ask, “If the angel plays the harp, what does the devil play?” Satan’s first sentence to me answered that: “Welcome to Hell; here’s your accordion.”

Superman. Stronger than a thousand men. Lasers coming from his eyes. Faster than the speed of light. Bullets can’t penetrate his skin. He beats up identical looking henchmen in their millions. Flying through the skies, coming in low to impress – straight into a lamppost. The funeral was a quick affair.

Phil Drayston. His name strikes fear into all. Hell’s Angel. Roaring down streets, tearing up the concrete. If there’s burnt rubber, there’s Phil. Over 120 miles per hour, leather jacket, no helmet. The bike slows down. Phillip looks at the lit square by the coin slot. ‘Ride Over. Insert 50p.’

I was late. Having surmounted the empty wardrobe challenge, all I needed was perfume. I’m not usually a splasher, but tonight, when impressing meant so much, I’m afraid I splashed – grabbing the first thing in the cabinet. Kind-of lemony.

“That’s funny,” they said, “can anyone else smell toilet cleaner?”

 

Between “mean” and “it”

Another argument left the Raymond household with an arctic atmosphere. But the bad feeling soon passed, as efforts were made to unsay things.

“I didn’t mean it,” said Mrs. Raymond.

It was months later, when filing for divorce, both parties realised there were two words missing from that sentence; “to say”.

It’s the waiting game. The hourglass is turned. Dreary eyed, staring at the shadows from the blue light of the windows. The hourglass turns. Fingers stretch, a shiver, curling up in your chair to retain some warmth. The hourglass turns once again. It takes a long time to load Word.

Jay Ferguson/John Locke/Randy California/Mark Andes/Cassidy

Having added the final brushstroke, I stepped back to gaze admiringly at my handiwork. I had finished my painting. My masterpiece. Proudly, I showed it to everyone within shouting distance.

“The aim is to encourage the viewer to question,” I told them.

“What is it?” they asked.

“Exactly,” I said.