I have no bloodhounds to set upon them, so I vary the means by which I can get rid of them. I feign deaf and dumb. I slam the door. I palliate. I shout down from an upstairs window that I have a curling tongs to my hair. A very nice man came to mend a gas leak and because of having to strike matches to relight the pilot lights, he put the four used matches back into his own box so as not to defile my kitchen, their kitchen. Now I call that thoughtful, don’t you? I wouldn’t have minded a walk with him, in the twilight, a bit of handholding, fingers plaiting, all that. He looked like a star gazer, absorbed and remote. “Have a sherry,” I said. We drank it standing up. He was shy, not like most of those gadflies who try to get a foot in if you’re in a negligée or a shift, keep peering at you around the pap region. One such felon snapped at my dressing-gown braid and said “Hi. Freckles.” Freckles! I am as white as calico and have only been exposed to extreme sunshine twice in my life.
