We sit in our dog-eared lounge after the pub closes, a bit bungle, drinking cheap white wine that tastes of dried apricots, smelly socks and nit lotion.
The man from Winkworths is coming next week. We contemplate clearing the house up to spring clean standard. We all focus on a single, unsightly red splodge staining the centre of our once-magnolia ceiling, directly above the coffee table and below Humphrey’s bed.
Pure Macbeth, it is impossible to see the red spot as anything but a seeping blood patch, dripping and pooling from a gruesome murder scene only feet above. The red spot remains and insists on constantly, silently, reminding us of a ghastly evening.
Fake blood, you see, is hard to remove from ceilings. And walls. And clothes, carpets and pillows. It’s behind pictures, on the underside of the sink, streaked along cracks in the floorboards and flicked across insides of cupboards. It’s dribbling form Marilyn’s black and white glass-covered pout and speckles the private view that is the back of the loo door.
Nearly half a year after Halloween and its hectic, crowded, ghastly fun, the spots refuse to budge. The scary gourd is still sitting on the window ledge, next to the plastic spider and I have only just found the last of the rolling, socketless eyeballs, I think.
Out damn spot! We don’t want to frighten the lovely customers. But judging by things so far, our wrinkled and happy sitting room should be presentable and clean in about 6 months’ time. By Halloween, that is.