Whispers in the stairwell last night.
I shouted through the door – Who’s there?
When I was 5, I was left to sit out on the stairwell, while my mother went in to visit a “friend”. A man approached me and whispered something into my ear, then carried on up the stairs. I did not hear what he said. I just held on tight to the balustrade as time passed right through me, like a ghost ship intent on some forgotten harbour.
Only the devil hears whispers and in the silence, makes his notes.
So Angela Merkel looks like the doorman, Bruce, in drag.
Could be worse, I suppose. She could look like Gary Glitter on a bad day and that would be tragic. Even for the Germans.
Unable to sleep last night, I popped down stairs in my very masculine pyjamas to have a chat with our “man”, to ask him why, why on Victoria’s Secrets’ annual glossy catalogue would he be interested in wearing women’s’ clothing.
He gave a shy smile, glanced down at his manicured nails and said –
– ‘Cos it makes me feel sexy.
I’m going to leave it at that and pretend I never saw him in drag, that we never spoke and that the Germans deserve what they get.
Actually, the last bit about the Germans is true, I don’t have to pretend.