If, like your humble blogger, you're an assiduous reader of the websites of the gutter press -in which category I include the Telegraph, such is its enthrallment to 'slebdom - you will have seen this story about a couple who claim their sofa is haunted. The ghostly presence manifests itself by a 'mystery creaking sound' that is getting louder and louder, and even their Yorkshire terrier is scared. To the delight of sub-editors everywhere, the hauntees' surname is Strange.
The Telegraph finishes its account of the story rather sniffily: "It is unclear whether they have ruled out rodents." That reminded me of my own brush with a terrifying sofa. In far-off student days, six of us lived out of college in a shared house (which was small, filthy and generally horrible) in the second year. At the end of the first term we had a very drunken Christmas dinner in the house, in the course of which (for reasons lost in the mists of time) we shoved some bones of the chicken we'd just eaten under the sofa cushions. The next day, very hungover, we all went home for Christmas without clearing up.
When we came back the next term, having forgotten about all this, two of us were sitting on the sofa when someone noticed that the maggots...The same sofa was later discovered to have fleas.
Ah, happy days.
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2 comments:
Don't forget the hedgehog.
Thankfully, I've forgotten anything about a hedgehog, no doubt in a fit of psychic self-preservation.
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