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There were ghosts, yes. But no cobwebs. The spiders were all sent packing. Skeletons lurking in cupboards were disinfected to death (although admittedly they had been dead already). The polished chandeliers gleamed; the doors were far too clean to creak.
Ghosts Mrs. Trevelyan didn’t mind, but dirt she couldn’t stand.

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The King of the Mallard Race surveyed his new kingdom with a proud eye. His people would be happy here; grow fat, and prosper. Here ended their nomadic existence. But wait – what were these strange symbols printed on the sand? Four words the King couldn’t read: Argos. Floating Duck Island.

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Alone at your folding island, you have never felt so isolated. Your scribbling classmates’ proximity only adds to your loneliness. You have run out of things to write – stare at the questions, the lines in the answer booklet gawping blankly at your stupidity. Suddenly, inspiration strikes. Still five minutes left…

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“We are sorry,” said the usually bubbly presenter, “we have let you down.”
The camera panned to her colleague.
“There will be an investigation into how the footage was broadcast. We no longer have the death penalty in England, but Thomas will be in prison for a very long time.”

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The cellar in our house has names carved into its walls. My mother says they are the names of pets buried there by previous families. But the patched-up holes look distinctly human-shaped to me. And sometimes in the middle of the night, I can hear fingernails, scratching, scratching at brick.

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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 quintet, I hear someone I can’t see, humming sadly along.

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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.”

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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.

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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.’

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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”.