July 25, 2008
A friend of mine had occasion to visit a police station of this parish earlier this week, and complained the following day that she feared she'd been bitten by a flea. Several times. On her arm and leg.
Then another friend of mine, who knows someone who knows someone else who may or may not have connections to the police force, told me last night over several large glasses of Pinot Grigio, that said police station had the fumigators in yesterday, such was the flea infestation problem.
Turns out it was scorched earth policy at said police station: Uniforms and lockers stripped down, cells steamed out, the whole lot.
None of that mattered to my initial friend, however: Something of a cleanliness obsessive at the best of times, this ever-so-slightly languid creature of fine looks and firm stature was just plain arsed at the very temerity of said "poor and scabby" insectual trespass.
Really: How very dare they?
So imagine my utter, delicious delight - Rumplestiltskin prancing-style, if you will - when I received a phone call not a few moments ago from the police press office telling me how it had happened.
"It's a bit sensitive," the guy said, as I pictured my Perfect Ten friend fussing irritably over her red flea bites.
"Basically, a couple of the lads went on a call out to an address where the milk bottles were piling up. You know the score... old person, and all that."
"Dead?"
"Very. And absolutely covered in fleas, maggots and flies. Nasty business. And they brought it all back to the station in their clothes. Horrible. You going to use this?"
"Not now, mate. Too squeamish for the readers."
"Cheers."
"No problem..... [click..... click..... dial.......] You're never going to guess what bit you the other day, scab rot...."
A Gtalk response just in: "You absolute bastard.. can't believe you have told me this. I hate you. I hate you forever. I'm covered in dead people fleas and you just think its funny. Damn you to hell"
Hehe....
