Michael Jackson and the Date Scones

Sunday 8.45am

Eleven o’clock in the morning, the breakfast kerfuffle has long faded and the house has settled into quiet again. Not the usual witching hour, but still . . .

A vague shuffling sound enters the kitchen. I am at the sink finishing the washing up, one ear on the radio, my mind absorbed with date scones. With my back to the room I don’t notice anything different at first, but then the shuffling stops. There is someone in the room with me.

Finishing the last plate I squeeze out the dishcloth put it to one side, pull out the plug and turn around. Dark brown eyes gaze vacantly in my direction from within deep blackened hollows in a grayish yellow complexion. A peaked cap and hooded top surround what little I can see of its face, the rest of its gaunt frame is hidden amongst clothes that have obviously been buried for far too long.

“cunihavalift?” it speaks, then stands swaying slightly, its meager intelligence concentrating on staying upright.

Being the earth mother that I am, my first thoughts are of sustenance.

“wouldn’t you like some breakfast first ?” I say.

“no, I am of the undead, we consume only pleasure, and chocolate”

No that can’t be right, I reach over to turn off the radio and try again.

“Pardon?”

“nuh. . . .nohungreeneedaliftt’dre’s-gonbelate”

Looking around at my tidy kitchen, now seems as good a time as ever - I’ll make scones when I return.

“Okay, lets go then”

Turning slowly the apparition shuffles away towards the door and picking up the car keys I follow along.

Life is never dull when you have teenagers.