The Majestic Interruption

     The TV was rubbish that night, as it generally was every night.  But still, I was glad to be indoors. Outside, the rain fell in lashes and cut through you like a volley of arrows; the wind blew waves of surface water across the pavement turning them into rivers.  The Met Office had issued a weather warning across central London.  I was very glad to be indoors.

     I was tempted to watch a sad film.  It would go well with the bottle of wine that I’d opened.  I was just about to get up to browse my DVD collection when there was an unexpected knock at the door. 

     Who was that?  At this time, in this weather?  Really?

     I approached the door: cautiously, but more annoyed than anything else.

     Upon opening I was met with an elderly woman: left beleaguered by the weather, I couldn’t see her face for some ridiculous pink hat she wore - made worse by the long pink overcoat.  She was small and I thought facetiously that she looked like a marshmallow – a drenched marshmallow. 

   “Oh thank you dear, one is so grateful you answered at this late hour of inclement weather.”  She addressed me in a pompous, nasally voice, “well you see dear, our automobile has seemingly stalled just outside your house and I was wondering if I could perhaps utilise your telephone?”

         Before I could even say anything she turned around and, in one loud screech incongruous to her size and demeanour, yelled out: “Phil! Phil! Come on she’s letting us in.  Bloody hell, hurry up!”  She looked at me and smiled; then walked up the steps into the hall without invite.

     I raised my hand to object but before I could speak I felt something push past my legs.  I looked down and saw two small dogs had just run into my house after the woman.

   “Oh, I am terribly sorry.”  This was a new voice, a man’s, from behind coming up the path, “I couldn’t stop the little buggers.” He chuckled, obviously finding this amusing; I didn’t.

   “Yes, yes that’s right”, it was the elderly woman I could hear: on my phone in my kitchen! “Yes, Buckingham Palace please”.

      I froze.  Startled and bemused.  I went into the living room and picked up the bottle of wine: studying the contents for anything unwonted that could have brought on this hallucination.

     Giving up, I turned listlessly to the old man: “Do you take wine, Phil?” I enquired politely.
   “Oh no thank you dear, not with my bladder.”  He chuckled again.  I burst into hysterics.