Pink Dolphins

This blog has previously broken some serious scoops on:

Dolphins being aliens and Dolphin rape disturbances growing in number.

Now it has come to light that Amazonian Pink Dolphins (Inia geoffrensis) may well be the worst of a bad bunch.

Here in the EXCLUSIVE IMAGE you can almost literally see what this Pink Dolphin is thinking about.

The Maltese Talkin' - Chapter 4 - The Bowling Community

Chapter 4.

Apart from three days a week of work at the alley, I had no other commitments, appointments or incoming phone calls. No connections. No one in the whole country had any idea who I was. 

The Luxury of Nothing was that it left me completely flexible. There was no pressure to do anything or be anything in particular. I wasn’t so and so’s friend, I wasn’t that ladies’ son, I was nobodies’ brother or sister. I had all the time in the world, all to myself, and I could do whatever I wanted with it. Four days off a week meant I had enough time to wake up late and have Spaghetti Bolognese for breakfast. Singing. I could wander the stony countryside that was succumbing to the new season’s flora and fauna; the Long-headed Poppy, the Argolian Cotton Thistle, the Silvery Mallow-Leaved Bind Weed, the Maltese Yellow Kidney Vetch: wild plants with the weed’s underrated propensity to make things vibrant. The plants spring out of the ground to ridicule the town and in a small-walled field, brimming with yellow flower, kids bunk off school to play with a tethered goat. 

            I could eat choc-chip muffins with a coffee on my balcony wearing nothing but boxers, as the land gradually warmed up. The fruit and veg’ man would drive his truck up Triq Il-Forrest and sound the tuneful siren to notify the neighbourhood that he would be here for the next twenty minutes. Plump Catholic ladies in long dresses would come out of the nowhere to buy a watermelon, some tomatoes, some red peppers - but mainly to exchange the daily gossip. None of it my concern.    
        

I could slide into shorts, a vest and sandals and head down to the sea with a book - very relaxed, dragging my heels, smiling - moving slowly but unhindered. The author William Burroughs would conjure up dystopian worlds where groups of young reptilian boys sat naked in trees masturbating before spreading their scaly lizard wings and flying away. Peeking over the lines of lucid imagination, over the top of the book, I would spy clusters of youthful foreign girls, out tanning between English classes. I would roll onto my back to tan my stomach, proud of just how bone-idle I had become.

            Kurt German, another bar man from the bowling alley, also lived out his time at a casual pace. He worked at Superbowl more often than me, probably got an occasional phone call, but he was very relaxed about the Whole Thing. Nothing to prove, he enjoyed laughing at things you mightn’t notice. He even found his own life laughable – though that could make you feel awkward at times. Kurt was 26. He had a shaved head but still looked hairy because of his five-o-clock shadow, thick eyebrows and un-plucked glabella. He lived with his mum and dad. I realised it was not at all unusual to stay living with your parents well into your 20’s or even your 30’s in Malta. It was an odd concept for me but with a house like Kurt’s who could blame him? His parents were a host family to language students, but as a rule they only ever hosted girls. Down the hall from Kurt’s bedroom was a 4-bunk-dorm with a year round rotation of bright young things from all across Europe: aged between 16 – 25, here to study one of Malta’s most valuable exports – the English language. Best of all they were paying his family for the privilege.

            I noticed in Kurt, amid the obvious strong appreciation for the place he lived an ennui stemming from a lack of harsh variety, similar to my own. I could tell he felt it himself this sense that life was too unvaried. Maybe it was due to the messages that advertisements were carrying at the time: Nowness ‘Live Life Today!’ a nagging immediacy to do something - the specifics left unmentioned. Just a friendly subliminal reminder that you will die soon and that products don’t buy themselves. 

So,

Hey,

Live it up.

Seize the day.

Now.

The Baystreet Mall even had it’s own ad: ‘Live life the Bay way.’ This advert repeated daily on Bay FM which was the daily soundtrack at Superbowl[1]. I just couldn’t tell if I was living the Bay way or not. 

As far as aspirations went, mine weren’t particularly capitalist. My money was held in a bank account in England.  In Malta I could only draw it out but not check the balance. Internet banking was in its infancy and I hadn’t set it up properly pre-departure, or maybe I had forgotten my password, or maybe I just didn’t want to know how much I owned. Taking into consideration the exchange from Pound Sterling to Maltese Lira, my rough calculations were that with my low rent, pitiful income and alcoholic outgoings my money was diminishing very, very gradually. Imagine a line-graph; the once jagged red stroke seems flat but the trained eye notices a slight decline and in a self-destructive mood the banker’s eyes sparkle.

After an uneventful morning’s work Kurt asks me if I smoke.

“But do you smoke, smoke?” is his question to my answer.

“What do you mean?”

“Hash.”

 “Oh. Yes. Occasionally.”

“I thought so, you look like you are stoned all the time man.”

I wasn’t, I just have a zombie demeanour and my eyes are naturally squinty.

We duck past the Vodaphone ‘Life Is Now’ banner that surrounds St Julian’s Water Polo Pitch onto the concrete ledge that hangs over Balluta Bay where we spark up an aromatic joint.

“My parents will be preparing a meal.” Kurt says thoughtfully.

I am so stoned that the mention of food makes my stomach feel like it is in a long-distance relationship, missing its lover: Miss Food.

We venture to his house in San Gwann and sit outside at a long table lined with welcoming faces. There, that evening, I met Vera. Translated into Maltese her name means ‘True’. Vera wore white silk pyjama bottoms - a Persian Princess or as much akin to one as it’s possible for a girl from Switzerland to appear. Sunbathing isn’t a hobby, it is an art form. I told Vera I did absolutely nothing most days and gave her my phone number in case she ever wanted somebody to spend some time with. 

           
 I often contemplated how I alone had wound up with so much free time. Leisure time was talked about like some valuable commodity but I seemed like the only person in the world that had any.  I imagine myself the cliché cockney wheeler-dealer. An archaic character peddling knock-off Rolexes on a street corner. Opening a long coat on the sly, flashing the gold watches to passers by; each bogus timepiece pegged irresponsibly to the inside lining...

Free Time! Get – Your – Free – Time - Here!” 

…But everyone walks by. Nobody stops doing what they are doing. Except Vera, who went to the beach with me. On the way she made me listen to a song called ‘Bandit Queen’ one earpiece each; it did not describe her. At Gardira Bay she told me she had a boyfriend and that my hands should not touch her. I caressed her legs with the loose white sand, sprinkling it over her hourglass figure.  The sea was still slightly cold.

Next day. Back at the bowling alley. Alex and I were getting on famously. Noticing there weren’t many tips in our tip jar we had started working with an arm tucked behind our backs, inside our polo shirts. One-armed men deserve that little bit extra. Neville had begun referring to Alex as “Your friend” when speaking with me. 

“Aw king. In one hour I am going home. To sleep. Very tired ta. Tomorrow: Party. Tonight it is your friend working he.”

I was beginning to understand what Neville had meant when he called Superbowl ‘The House of Work’ – people dropped in for a brief chat, some stayed for hours, others worked there; they all gelled together creating a loose community. Neville respected the place because the staff formed an extended family. A popular sociologist called Robert Putnam wrote a book called ‘Bowling Alone’ where he elaborates on the notion that bowling leagues (or any sort of organised association) are foundations for healthy human connections, strong social capital and civic empowerment… Well, the bowling league may have been diminishing in the USA but it was alive and kicking and drinking Farsons Blue Label in Malta.

With regular weekly sessions Malta Tenpin Bowling Association teams were an important part of the Superbowl family unit. It was a community I felt privileged to be a part of, even if I was equivalent to an estranged half-cousin. Slowly I got to know a few more of the staff at the ‘House of Work’ – the pillars of the community. 

There was Ray; the oldest barman. He had a wife and kids. He was a fiery, bald-man with tattooed arms and a thunderous way of going about things: a roaring embodiment of head banging guitar solos torn from the 1980’s. We didn’t speak all that much, he would linger at the far end of the bar and talk in Maltese with one of the managers or Mohammed the filthy minded Egyptian chef. When a dirge of customers would force us both to be behind the bar at the same time he would craftily pinch my cock on passing, or slap my balls with a dishcloth. Not in a gay way, which I suppose just made it all the more unusual and un-called for. Was this Über masculine behaviour?

I asked Alex and got the reply “That’s just Ray, he’s a nice guy. I don’t know why he does stuff like that. Just quite physical I guess.” 

It was true he was very tactile; he couldn’t keep his hands off anyone. Grabbing the female staff, picking them up and flipping them around like Catherine-wheels. I wished I could be more like Ray in this sense; more touchy-feely but it wasn’t in my nature. Although not at all shy when talking to people I just wasn’t comfortably inclined to instigate human touch (unlike most of the Maltese people I observed). Thus I decided to make a conscious effort to try. I would stop short of pinching men’s cocks but a friendly arm around a friend’s neck here and there is surely good for The Soul.

            From what I was getting to know of Malta I supposed Ray was what was referred to as Hamalu - a term describing a societal ‘tribe’ – a label similar to ‘Chavs’: Britain’s working class scallywags. Not so much a social class per-se, more a mentality of a sub-group within the lower class – the ones who had their own set-ways of doing things, their own unmistakably crude sub-cultural identity. Hamalu people were blamed for those crass bumper stickers seen on cars. Ray probably wished me triple what I wished him. The young ones wore brightly coloured jeans – yellow, purple and green - that hung not around the waist but just above the knee, their Fake Armani boxer shorts on show. I’m no expert but other recognisable traits of the Hamalu apparently included: predominantly speaking Maltese in all areas of life, supped-up cars, and a penchant for cocaine. They seem to have evolved from the bus drivers, who in turn bear a remarkable resemblance to the hunters.
 

            Chris, Superbowl’s mechanic, was a hunter. He promised to take me out to shoot some migrating birds in September. I was planning on writing an unbiased article about this Maltese tradition. I would see with eyes unclouded by hate and write pure objective journalism. I never got round to it and don’t think any other journalists have either. In the meantime Chris showed me that mysterious domain behind the bowling pins – where the machines collect the scattered skittles, whiz ‘em up, above the lanes, using huge rubber conveyer belts, then set them again real quick for the next bowler.

            There were two mechanics when I first started but one was acting strange from the off. He was spending longer and longer in the toilets, rarely available to fix faults. One day he couldn’t be found anywhere around the alley. Somebody said they had seen him go behind the lanes about half an hour ago, though all the lanes were operating fine. A group of the staff cautiously opened the door to see if he was back there and sure enough he was: head tilted back looking up at the ceiling, eyes closed, standing with his arms held out as if being crucified, stark naked from head to toe.

Mohammed the Egyptian chef had many wives and the bar staff learnt all about them whether we wanted to or not. I had never heard such filthy talk; it made William Burroughs seem tame.

David the other Egyptian chef didn’t have a rude bone in his body - or was just better at concealing it. David darted around like a housefly, and I thought it funny that a guy who wore fluffy slippers to work could move so quickly.

            Clayton and Ryan came from a land known to be a Hamalu stronghold ‘The Dirty South’. If they themselves were Hamalu or not I found it hard to tell. Clayton had lots of piercings around his face. He taught me how to do cocktail ‘flares’ with an empty Malibu bottle. I practiced until I could easily flick a bottle up, so that it twisted mid-air, then catch it upright on the flat-top of my hand. His teachings did not end there as I learnt some Maltese phrases from him. The most popular around the bowling alley was his poetical phrasing of the common question ‘How old are you?’ – “Kemm ilek ma tindendel mal faldi t’ommok?” - Literally “How long since you hung from your mothers pussy flaps?”

            Clayton’s partner-in-crime Ryan always looked slightly scruffy, his stubble always at three day’s length. He looked like he would smile through a shoot-out. He was in his last year of university. When he went snorkelling he took a spear gun. His bodily expressions were like a court-jester’s: big and loud. When he came behind the bar to mix himself a cocktail - his own concoction - Neville would moan and tut but wouldn’t dream of stopping him. Ryan and Clayton worked on Control: Booking lanes and inputting customer’s nicknames onto the system, taking the payments, handing out the right sized shoes, untying laces, and finally spraying returned pairs with blasts of that air freshener which gives bowling shoes their magical quality.

I pass the control desk and Ryan nods at one of the Mothers chaperoning a kids’ party.
“Look at that woman there. Do you think she is hot?” Ryan asks slyly.
She didn’t look repulsive. Just a respectable middle aged woman, could have easily been a maths teacher.
“Not really. She looks OK.”
This made Ryan grin like a Cheshire cat. He motioned me to lend him an ear and whispered “I agree, but imagine how much better she would look with your cock in her mouth.”

            Duncan was a Duty Manager who got on well with everybody and tolerated Ryan and Clayton's crude shenanigans, though he himself rose well above them. He was a prime example of a 21^st century-metro-sexual-male - streamlined for a business world. He wore pink shirts, yes, but this did not show femininity; it showed he was comfortable with his sexuality. Yes his fiancé packaged his lunch in Tupperware. They had the set. Yes he had the mortgage down. Yes he held cheese and wine nights. Yes he had a second job managing a currency exchange bureau… One morning when the bowling alley was a ghost town he took me to the Baystreet Mall to look at silk ties and baby clothes and to sample aftershaves. Isabelle his fiancé also worked with us.

            Timms was twenty-one years old, wore glasses and had unpredictable hair that was a grey shade of brown. I was convinced he was Where’s Wally’s long lost brother who, instead of visiting crowded places all over the world wearing a stripy red & white top, worked on Customer Service at Eden Superbowl wearing the blue staff polo shirt. When Timms was drinking he would make itemised lists of exactly what he had consumed then regale them to me the next day or the next week in his trademark drawl that could put an insomniac to sleep.

“First I started with Carlsberg, I had four cans. Then I decided to drink whiskey, I had a bottle of that in the fridge so I had three glasses with lemonade. In fact it had been four and a half cans of Carlsberg because I had saved half a can from the previous day. After the whiskey I went to Paceville. I had one pint of Cisk at Coconut Grove…”

If I asked, he could also tell me how far he had walked because he counted his steps. I guess he also knew exactly how many strikes he had gotten over the last month, as he was a keen bowler. He was in a team and once a week he would be at the bowling alley in civilian attire, bowling competitively in the national league. He taught me how to spin bowl – where the ball runs three quarters of the way down the lane diagonally, teeters on the edge of the gutter then spins last minute back to the centre pin, and, if executed correctly gets a strike. He was a good teacher – methodical – taught me step by step.
           

            Beside myself, the other Bar Helpers where Kurt Malieha and Kurt Coleiro. Kurt Malieha was much smaller than most people but would walk with his tubby chest out and his head tilted back in an attempt to compensate, this coupled with his glasses made him look like a mole peeking out of the ground. He was boisterous and inventive with his lying, constructing complex webs that even he believed. He had not yet passed his driving test but always talked about his car and how he was doing it up or working on it at the weekend. He wore a Ferrari baseball cap. Kurt Coleiro was much more socially acceptable; cooler than the rest of us. He combed his long fringe to the side obscuring half his face, wore black jeans, a V-neck T-shirt and a studded belt. He was often seen using mobile phone, he had an attractive girlfriend and according to some sources, sold hash.

             
The Customer Service department had two main functions: setting up children’s birthday parties and fetching balls that had been rolled with such a lack of force as to stop half way down the lane. The team consisted of Ben, Isabelle (Duncan’s fiancé), a shy girl called Titzianna who bowled competitively with her twin sister, and Katinka who was a foreigner but had lived here since young – she drove a scooter and, to label her with a single word, was ‘alternative.’ Then there was Dawn. She looked like a bunny-rabbit, her eyes sparkled like black diamonds, she was stumpy, she was cute. I liked being allocated the same shifts as her – I was developing a little crush. She was extremely polite and good-natured, unless provoked. Neville often drove her crazy, maybe because he insisted on calling her his wife, or “This One” and never by her actual name. 

 

Neville and I were fighting in the Control booth. I swung him around and his flailing feet struck Dawn. She was angry with both of us. Later Neville revealed to me that it wasn’t my fault in the slightest; he had kicked her on purpose. His face showed delight at his own cunning and he sniggered

“Pah - Love hurts.”

 There were several other faces from the bowling community that became familiar to me, appearing sporadically whenever I was working at the alley. Most notable was Sabrina. She constantly teased me, cooing my name like a dove in heat “Coooolleeee.” She wore shiny silver hot pants and pigtails. Most days of the week she could be found flitting around the alley like a black haired butterfly. Her family bowled and she herself was in a league bowling team, but surely this would be her last year: soon the hot pants would become her. When I asked her in Maltese how old she was…

“Kemm ilek ma tindendel mal faldi t’ommok?”

…her eyes popped open, stunned and delighted like she had just heard a snake. She told me she was thirteen and ran off yelling to everyone “Listen to what Coolee just asked me.”
            After that I was no longer encouraged to learn Maltese. Still I knew the basics. By this point I could say:

•  “Nista nehodhom it tattzi?” – Can I take your glass, 
•  “Ghurini x’ghandek tant id-dublett” - Show me what’s underneath your skirt, 

and,

•  “Gerighuli ha nistrik” – Jerk me off so I can relax.

GO TO CHAPTER 5
           

---

[1] Eden Leisure Ltd incorporates the Superbowl, Cinema, Bay FM and Baystreet Mall.

What is a property guardian?

I doubt anybody becomes a property guardian with purely noble motivations. The property guardians I know are a byproduct of the unaffordable rents in London often coupled with the centrality of vacant buildings. If anybody were to become a property guardian for noble reasons they would undoubtedly be on the scheme run by Dot Dot Dot. 

They were my first port of call though more out of interest than magnanimity. The money I owned was less than zero and my provisional abode was romantically toxic. I was at a party in an old mental hospital that was under the protection of a guardian scheme when friend told me about Dot Dot Dot.

One of the patients of the hospital had constructed a shrine at the back of the garden that mainly consisted of a clay cranium that faced away from you.  For the first time in my life I prayed for money rather than health or love.

Dot Dot Dot soon called me in for a workshop. This particular company differs from other guardian schemes as they are a social enterprise and make sure all of their guardians volunteer for 4 hours a week.

It is a nice business model: if you wish to benefit from the cheap rents offered, then you have to give up a bit of your time to deliver useful services to the needy. A journalist, who had written a book called ‘FREE: Adventures on the Margins of a Wasteful Society’ founded the Dot Dot Dot company.

The workshop explained that a property guardian has less rights than a tenant. Instead of renting the place you have permission to be there. Property Guardians are similar to cleaners; they have the keys to the property and permission to be there but that is about the extent of the legal rights.

The potential guardians were given the chance to ask questions. I asked where the concept of property guardian schemes had originated. Surprise, surprise it had apparently started in Holland in the 1990s. This struck me as being recent.

Squatting grew in popularity since the 60’s and property guardian schemes are a happy compromise, a midway point, between both squatters and landlords. Funny then how it took at a couple of decades before the concept came about. Makes you think: what other great ideas could come about if more consideration went into appeasing all parties involved in a problem?

After the workshop all I could do was be patient because, even with the added clause of having to be a volunteer to get on their books, Dot Dot Dot still a waiting list.

part 2: how to become a property guardian
part 3: what does a property guardian do

How to become a property guardian

I was had only applied to be a guardian with one company (Dot Dot Dot) because I was attracted to their ethos of only housing volunteers. My thinking was that if I live with people that are willing to donate their time to ‘do something good’ I would meet some kind people. Good people. But then my friend, who had been a guardian for over a year, forwarded me an e-mail from the company he was with (Live-in Guardians).

‘Dear Guardians,

We have just taken on a new building in Borehamwood.

It is a 12 bedroom house but we are looking for 6-8 people, a couple of the rooms have a sink in them.

There is a communal lounge, big garden, off street parking, and 2 separate bathrooms. The Property is only 5 minutes’ walk from Elstree and Borehamwood station and then only 20mins on the Thames link into Kings Cross. 

If you have any friends who are interested in moving into this Property then please email me the details.

We believe we will have this Property for around 6 months.  

The room price will be £75 p/w.’

I needed to get a place of my own because I was developing unwanted feelings for the girl whose spare room I was living in, and she had a stable boyfriend. I went to view the Borehamwood property. From the outside the building looked like it had been designed by the Brothers Grimm. It was curiously bulbous as though it had been inflated within a frame of faux Tudor beams. The house used to be a care home owned by Peaceknoll Ltd known, when operational, as Theobald House.

It was huge, decorated in pastel tones, fully furnished, and the kitchen cupboards were stocked with tins of soup and Angel Delight. 

I was shown the many rooms and picked the one that was the warmest and smelt the least. The baths had mechanical chairs that would lower you slowly into hot water.

I would even be able to use all the freshly washed towels and bed linen.

 

 

Living here with five or six other people would be fun I thought. I signed the paperwork, was given the keys and told to transfer the deposit and monthly license fee (rent) over the weekend. Quick and easy, you would never get that level of simplicity from an estate agent.

part 1: what is a property guardian
part 3: what does a property guardian do

What does a property guardian do?

I’d never been a property guardian before and neither had Steve. He had moved into the vacant care-home a few days before me and had been there on his own, in the cold, for a few nights but managed to get the heating working just before I moved in. He was practical; in the rooms that smelt the worst he had left bowls of pear solution.

He worked for G4S and was in charge of the computers across their prisons network. He said that a large part of his job was to attempt to hack into the systems, and then make sure nobody else could do it the same way if he found a way in. Steve embodied two contrasting stereotypes. He looked and spoke like a regular bloke you’d find in a pub watching footy, while at the same time was a geek through and through. He could complete a 3x3 Rubix Cube in less than two minutes and the txt message tone on his phone was Master Yoda.

When Steve had first moved in, there had been a mysterious delivery that nobody could explain: a large box of bananas left on the doorstep.

There was no Internet in Theobald House but Steve said he would crack the neighbour’s password soon enough. The only other things our home lacked were a washing machine and a TV, which had both been repossessed. This meant for entertainment I read Sherlock Holmes and wandered around Elstree and Borehamwood, which are ironically branded as the home of film and television. 

 

The joint towns form a lonely commuter suburb in the Zone 6 outskirts of London. The film studios are the only notable institution except perhaps the Chinese takeaway ‘Lots of Rice’ or the Whimpy – a chain burger bar that you’d think was defunct.

At the start of my first weekend I got beaten up. Once I had made it out of central London a sweetheart of mine insisted on coming over to nurse me better with bacon sandwiches. We fell asleep uncomfortably on the single bed. She was woken in the night by what she thought were footsteps going form one end of the room to the other. I reassured her it was just the heating. The pipes were loud in this place and the floorboards were creaky.

After living in the Borehamwood care-home just over a week the fire alarm went off on the stroke of midnight. Steve and I turned it off at the control panel, which told us it had come Zone 4. Most of the light bulbs weren’t working in this part of the house. We investigated and there was no fire, but a small red LED was flashing on the smoke detector in one of the rooms. I went back to sleep. An hour later it happened again. This time a spider crawled out of the smoke detector. We turned the fire alarm power off.

Steve had a company car and was regularly away on business. He must have turned the switched the alarm system back on before he leaving the following Friday because just as I was going to bed the unbearable clanging rang out and I had to rush downstairs cut the power again. I didn’t check Zone 4. On Saturday morning a young lady pulled into the driveway in a shiny black Audi A4 and when I opened the door she asked if the old people still lived here.

“No.  It is just me and one other guy living here now, we are looking after the place until it is sold to developers.”

“Oh. Well I brought this cake around to give to them. Would you like it?”

She insisted I take the whole platter of chocolate cake even though I just wanted one piece. Later that day I went to Brighton and stayed the night in the bed of a girl I had met on a dating website, when I returned the following day I was locked out. The owner had been around and had locked both locks; I only had the key to one. The snow fell as I waited for a man from the property guardian company to come and let me in. Steve was still away.

Instead of washing in the baths, I preferred to use the stand-up shower cubicle that was en-suite in the room next door to mine. This luxury was soon taken away from me when it started dripping through the roof into the dining room. 

It had been almost three weeks now and, although a few more people had been shown around, nobody else had moved in. I realised it was unlikely that anybody else would.

The Dot Dot Dot guardian scheme got in contact with me and I viewed a property that they managed. It was a two bedroom ex-council flat. One room was painted dark purple, the other had landscapes and Dali Lama quotes drawn in white pencil on the light blue walls. There was no furniture. No oven. No fridge. No carpets. Just cracked walls and floorboards. It was not for me. I returned to Borehamwood. It was a Wednesday night and Steve was away yet again. I went to bed around midnight and fell asleep easily, as usual, after a long day at the office. I woke up in the navy-blue hours of the early morning. 

I was lying on my back staring at the ceiling and wondering why I had awoken. Then I felt an impression on one side of my pillow followed shortly after by an impression on the other side. It was as if a cat had jumped silently from one side to the other then disappeared into the night or as though a person had leaned over me, invisible hands either side of my head. My back tingled as a cold electric jolt raised my skin and dread washed over me. I rolled over onto my front and tried to return to sleep. I attempted to explain it rationally. A cat couldn't be in my room but a rat it could. This didn’t help. The image of a rat near jumping over your face is not a soothing thought. Each time I replayed the incident in my mind another shiver would run down my spine. It is no coincidence that our bodies feel most alive when our brain tells us we are in the presence of the restless dead. The only consolation I could muster was that I was now a little more akin to Juan Preciado one of my favourite literary characters.

I eventually got back to sleep and in the morning I packed an overnight bag and headed to work. My boss said I looked disheveled.

 

The longer I stayed away from the house the more the fear swelled up within me. When combined, all the little anomalies that I had previously ignored amounted to a portrait of a sickeningly creepy abode:

• The single toy shoe I found under my bed.
• The serviette with four names written on it in one of the drawers.
• The pink hairband in the wardrobe.
• The fire alarms.
• The novel with the first ten pages ripped out.
• The bottle of holy water in the kitchen.

• The girl who brought the cake over telling me she used to visit when her grandparents were still alive.
• The repressive fridge magnets.

 

• The clanging of the pipes so intense every night that I had to drown them out with relaxing music in order to sleep.
• The cup full of white slugs in the garden.

• The squeaking floorboards.
• The paintings.

• The china ornaments.  

• The flickering light in the hallway.
• The circus sized bottles of bleach under my sink.

• The dense ball of black hair that was on the sideboard in the bathroom &
• The one just like it that had been under my sheets the morning after the pillow experience.

• The bench in the garden with the plaque that commemorated the life of a woman 1899 – 1992.

• The reason for the property being sold being that the lady that had run it had died herself.
• The black marks worn into the floor at the foot of the chairs in the living room. 

• The pictures from the photo album corresponding with the rooms, now empty.
   

 

  

The scene so clear in my imagination, yet in reality, all life had vanished. What force was really guarding this place, and was I ever any more than an unwelcome guest?

I made my mind up never to sleep in the house ever again. I returned a few times to pick up essentials and each time I got nervous sweats. My friend Bill helped me move out and take the photos for this blog. Here he is sat in the dining room.

This is what he says about the place. 

"From the minute you walk into the building you could feel the place contained a dark and repressive energy. I was there for just over an hour, by the time I left I had a splitting headache" - Bill Jefferson

We also made this video re-enactment of The Borehamwood Pillow Haunting.

Within a few days I found somewhere wholesome that promised to extinguish my psychosis. I moved into an absent Mexican man’s room in a normal house. Full of life. Full of girls. Angels that I play badminton with and who bake me cookies. 

Once I'd left I got a message from Steve who was also planning on leaving the house because of the "trains"

Here is some final advice.

If you think you might have seen a ghost do not tell anybody. Immediately after my visit from the pillow presser, at work and at parties, I confided my tale to people. On hearing it each person would proceed to tell me a spooky experience they’d had, or heard about. By the end of the weekend my head was full of anecdotes of hauntings and I was becoming convinced spirits existed.

part 1: what is a property guardian
part 2: how to become a property guardian