I was having my breakfast at teatime on a cold, dark sunlit morning when to my surprise I could smell the colour of the sound the door bell makes.
"Well" I said loudly to myself. "Who on earth could be banging my bell in that shade of pink"?
Curious as to whom my visitor may be, I sent the dog to the front door with a 50p piece and a note saying 'call me'.
A few minutes later the phone rang so I answered the door saying "It’s a little bit late to be phoning at this time in the morning isn't it"?
The lady at the door I immediately recognised as someone I didn't know.
"Sir" she said without a by your leave. "I am your local neighbourhood Avon lady and I have travelled many miles from across the street to save your legs from the terrible blight of hairy legness".
Had she seen me through the window as I paraded myself naked dressed as a man with clothes on? Had my wife informed her of my most deeply held secret during one of her weekly naughty knicker meeting in the church hall?
How could she know of my shameful secret that only a handful of people at 'Gossips Anonymous' knew?
"Come in" I spluttered at her "and wipe your face with this towel".
She entered by way of in and stood in the hallway as I closed the door in the direction of shut.
"Tell me," I said as the last drops of spittle were wiped from her chin "how did you come into possession of the knowledge which you know of my hairyness"?
"Sir," she said pronouncing the comma, "I must confess that I did not know of your hairyness and that I used that merely as a ruse to gain access to your home".
"Well it worked" I answered somewhat jealously as I did not have a comma in my statement that I could pronounce as well as she had pronounced hers.
"I am in fact your local neighborhood murderer from London" she stated calmly pulling out a huge knife of minute proportions "and I have come to extract revenge on you, Arthur Plunger, for sneakily telling the law publicly who I am."
"But I live in Cardiff and my name is Daffydd Murgatroyd!" I spluttered again handing her the towel.
"Plunger wasn't at home!" she said calmly.
I stood, nervously hopping from foot to foot and said "I have no more dialogue."
"Neither have I" she answered.
"Are we done then” I asked.
"Suppose so" she said.
We retired to the billiard room which wasn't there yesterday and agreed totally with each other that it was a peculiar ending to a promising start and mediocre middle.
"We should have done the 'Four Candles' sketch" I said.
"Been done" she answered bitterly.
Together we sidled from the page and out of view of the reader.
"That was embarrassing" we said together as the author closed the editor and saved his work.