Paul and Helen were going to a christening.
We were living as one big happy foursome (Heather, paul, Helen and myself) in Paul and my old flat in Weir Road, Balham.
Sanj, had been round and had been smoking in the kitchen (which was all formica, with a table in the middle), and he had left loads of cigarette butts all over the floor, which I was not best chuffed about.
Heather and I were in bed asleep, when we were woken by someone in next doors garden. Thing is we were actually in bed, in our garden (though in real life this flat never had a garden, or a big kitchen for that matter). The two gardens were long and thing and seperated by the classic chest high wooden fence.
So the noise was coming from the next door garden was the slightly ‘simple’ Postman we used to see round balham. He’s this really tall black geezer that is always smiling and happy, always talking to people randomly.
Anyway, he is running down the garden shouting, ‘Stop, Stop, stop my post cart’, as he chases his post cart towards the end of the garden.
At the bottom of the garden he finds the next door neighbour and his girlfriend/wife. Except the girlfriend wife is bent over the white plastic B and Q garden table, and the bloke, with his trousers round his ankles, is quite clearly shagging her.
Without batting an eyelid, our ‘simple’ postman chum asks if they have seen his post bag. The neighbour, perhaps sensing that he might get away with this, despite the compromising position they are in, tells the postie that he saw it go into the next door neighbours garden, adding, ‘it was a black one though’.
This seems to satisfy the postie, who goes into next but ones garden in search of his cart.
At this juncture the neighbour looks around to check they are in privacy (at the bottom of their garden, outdoors for fucks sake), and spots Heather, giggling like a school girl, and me, mouth open in shock. He sticks two’s up at us and tells us to ‘go away in jerky movements’.
We are now back inside our bedroom, in bed. Helen and Paul come in and announce that we are now having the christening here.
I decide to go for a shower before everyone arrives. The bathroom has a shower straight in front of you was you walk through the door. I go to turn the tap on, but its not working right and then notice something moving in the corner of my eye.
A gorgeous blonde bird is stripping off in the corner of the bathroom. I gulp – Heather is in the room right next door – and offer a weak, ‘Hello’. She says nothing.
I am still fiddling with the taps in my nervousness at this whole situation. ‘I think I’ll let you use the shower first’, I say before adding a pathetic, ‘its a very nice shower, the waters really hot usually’. She speaks.
‘Do you not think this is very nice’, she says as she gently strokes her breasts and bottom.
‘My girlfriend will kill me if she finds me in here’.
I leave. Quickly. Or it would have been quickly if it hadn’t been for the fact the door is now locked, and has turned into one of those doors with a gap at the bottom and top. This gap is just big enough to tempt you to squeese through if you have to get out, but can’t unlock the door.
I get a bit stuck but manage to get out just as Heather comes out the bedroom.
‘I thought you were having a shower?’ she says.
‘Yes I was, but the, erm…, er, the water is too hot.’
Our flat suddenly gets bigger, and loads of old people start filling it, drinking tea out of posh white china, and smoking for England.
I start getting very irrate, at (a) the fact we haven’t been consulted on this ‘having the christening in the flat’ business, and be, the amount of cig butts on the floor. I decide to politely ask everyone to stop smoking, starting with two old black ladies that look suspiciously like the two Lilt ladies. My opening gambit with them – ‘would you two young girls mind putting out your cigarettes?’ – meets with fits of belly laughs from the ‘girls’. This all takes place in my bedroom which has suddenly changed in to an old womans lounge, complete with dark green curtains and crap nets.
No one is putting there cigs out. I start getting angry. Rather unsubtlying I go through all the rooms telling everyone to, ‘Get the fuck out of my house’. This does the trick, though there are a few tears, and I feel slightly guilty at upsetting some of the blue rinses.
Everyone leaves and the stairs of our flat turn into large cathedral stairs, and out of nowhere a GNER train (the ones they bought from euro star, fact fans) goes whooshing past my nose. Our flat has turned into Lime Street station in Liverpool.
I am sat on an a train that is on its side. Kevin Ackers is sat next to me, as is Sam. Sam is talking to us about something or other, but I am distracted as I see a train hit the buffers, causing the front engine to Shoot up into the air. It then comes crashing back down.
The front of the train is just a seat with a bit of glass over the front of it. This is where the driver is trapped, being flung around like a rag doll. He can’t stand up properly and is clearly badly hurt.
Firemen arrive, and help him out. He is staggering around, with one leg bent the wrong way.
All through this Sam is still talking as if nothing has happened.