Title : Observation
Setting : Meet Agnes, a 80 something year old women who lives at number 11 Grimmauld Place. Due to an irregular bus timetable, she spends most of her senior life sat at the bus stop. Watching.
Grimmauld Place. Not exactly the nicest place to live. But its not that bad, not compared with some other streets in London. And it's home. The people aren't that bad either, really. There are no drug addicts, junkies I think they call them now. People only drink in excess on special occasions; a birthday maybe. Or a Saturday night. Oh and there is no regular bus service down the road. Which is why I spend a lot of time at the bus stop. Why I notice a lot.
Grimmauld place has no number 12. There's nothing odd about that, my daughter lives on a street that begins at number 15, and one of my sons, the elder one, he lives on a street with all even numbers. Like I said, its perfectly normal for a builders to leave numbers out. Usually though, its number 13, the unlucky number. Not that I'm superstitious.
I'm not a busy body either. So don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I keep myself to myself, mind you, its other people who flaunt their business in the middle of the street. Can I help it if I'm observant? When I was younger we had to be observant, I haven't grown up throw a world war to ignore everything that goes on around me you know. If you want to blame someone, blame the bus driver, he never shows up on time! Can I help it if I see Mr Jackson at number 10 in his bedroom with Mrs Morris? Mr Jackson teaches the neighbourhood kids how to play the saxophone. Nasty thing the Saxophone, makes a horrible racket! Anyway, I swear he only does it to get to spend time with the mothers. And he was married himself once, the shame of it. Oh, his wife died, bless her soul, more than ten years ago now. And the family in number 14, they argue constantly! "Child X didn't get to football practise yesturday, because Mum had a PTA meeting for Child Y's school and Dad forgot. Well, its not Dads fault you see, Teenager Z should have reminded him, but Teenager Z was out with her boyfriend until midnight, which she got grounded for, and Child X wants chips for diner, but Baby A has to have mushy peas…" It goes one and on, day and night. And don't get me started on newly Married 13, next door!
But as I said, all perfectly normal! Almost too normal for a London street. Now, what is irregular is the amount of new people who have been wandering down our street in the past two years. No that's wrong. Some have been wandering; some walking with a purpose, others casting furtive looks around. Some young, some old and even a few children. All wearing odd clothes and whispering together in hushed voices. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Nope. Not at all. As my daughter used to say, and still does sometimes, everything is "Hunkey Dorey"
What is weird is the clothes. A few months ago, this scruffy looking man came sauntering down the street in stripped pyjamas, with a nightcap on his head, pink slippers on his feet and a toothbrush in his hand. Last year, the same man shuffled nervously from one end of the street to the other, wearing a summer dress! And theres another man who wears dresses as well, or something very like dresses. Always black. He has very greasy hair too, this man. I like to think that he probably never has time to have a shower. I wonder whether he smells too, whenever I see him. He probably does. He wears the same clothes every time he walks passed. A long black dress with a piece of material attached to the back that billows when he walks. Oh, wait; there was one time when he wore trousers. That was when he went storming up the road, I remember thinking that he must have had an argument with someone, his face was so black.
Children have appeared once or twice. Always escorted by adults. The Children wear normal clothes. The adults wear an odd assortment of dresses and jumpers and trousers and shorts, one woman was wearing a swimming costume in January. (The next time I saw her; she had a fur coat on) A young woman escorting the children had pink hair, but then the next day when I saw her, it was blue. She must spend a fortune on hair dye. There's an old man who comes sometimes too. I haven't seen him around for a while now though. I do hope he is all right. He has a long silver beard, and equally long silver hair. There's just something about him. If my husband, God rest his soul, if my husband was still alive he would say "That man has all important airs and graces." He was always saying stuff like that, was my husband. And hes right, of course. Except this man often wears dresses too.
The other inhabitants of Grimmauld place can't see these people. And I'm glad. If they could, then they wouldn't be special, wouldn't be my secret. But I wont give them away. The people wearing dresses are safe here in my head. Their secret is safe.
Oh, and just another thing. When they reach where number 12 should be, they disappear!