A droubble by Ionicus
She opens the door before I have the chance to ring the bell. She is not a spring chicken anymore but what I’d describe as a glamorous granny. Skimpily dressed and highly perfumed.
“Are you Brian?” she asks, “I expected someone younger”.
I am confused and mumble: “I just came...” but she interrupts me.
“No matter, we’ll have to see what we can do about that”. “You got them?” she continues.
I think she means my credentials. I am about to show her my ID badge as she looks left and right down the road with a frown.
“We can’t be too careful; there are a lot of nosey-parkers in this street”. She warns.
I am almost dragged inside the house when I hear the sound of approaching footsteps on the gravel.
A young man carrying a newspaper and wearing a carnation in his buttonhole asks at the top of his voice:
“Hi, are you Beryl?”
She gasps and pushes me away, shouting:
“You have a bloody nerve trying to take advantage of me” and, after admitting the newcomer into the house, shuts the door in my face.
And all I was there to do, was to read the meter.