22 July 2013

Knock knock

Knock knock.

I hear two knocks from the window looking onto Vauxhall Bridge Road.

“Who’s there?” I ask.

“He’s ?xhaiea!?!” There’s a man with a Stella in his hand looking in.

“Who’s ?xhaiea!??” I reply to this passer-by.

“HE’S ?xhaiea!?!” The thick bombproof windows of the Press Association building mean we don’t quite hear each other.

I shrug.

He points.

I shrug again.

He points more fervently in the direction of the room next door.

I give him a thumbs-up that reads: “OK. Roger that. Over and out.”

He nods, salutes, and walks off.

Kate’s already given birth - what could this possibly be?

I walk in the general direction of the man’s pointing. Then I remember I have re-subs to do.

What do I do?

I tell myself that if journalism doesn’t work out, espionage could be my calling. So I put on my spy face steadying myself for the unexpected. I might not have a gun but I have a sharp suit, a suit without a jacket or tie but a suit nonetheless.

I check the time so at least I know my time of death - it's 9.30pm.

I slowly creep up to a door and I can hear the roaring of an overworked laptop on a hot summer’s evening. That was the warning.







Charlie's sleeping. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Charlie's sleeping.

Uncle Harry in the background was laughing. He must like knock knock jokes.



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