Once upon a time, there was a strange man who took to wearing checked tutus and carrying bottles of wine. His name was Bert, but people knew him as Crispy Glover. One day Crispy saw an intriguing mansion. Being the middle of the night and pitch black, that was quite a feat. Fumbling at the door, he remembered the key behind the flowerpot. He took the key and inserted it into the keyhole. It didn't fit. He remembered that he left his skeleton key in his other tutu, so went round back to see if the bathroom window was ajar. It was, conveniently. He clambered through, almost losing his bottle on the way. He landed with a soft thud in the bathtub, and laughed slightly. Picking himself up, he dusted off his tutu. The bath seemed dustier than usual, it had obviously not been used in awhile, he thought. Dismissing the notions about the cleanliness of the bathtub, he stepped out of it with a slightly loud clomp of his over-sized Doc Martens on warped floorboard. The moonlight shone through the small window enlightening his "Mr Fussy" socks, pulled up to his knees, which had been last year's birthday present from Grandma Gertie who had recently passed away

in a horrific wheelchair accident involving the stairs and her deranged cat of 16 years. What strange things I think about, mused Crispy, when one foot is in a dusty bathtub and the other upon warped floorboard.

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