...or his ex-girlfriend, to be precise.
So a couple of weeks back, just after we returned from our holiday in Kefalonia, we were sat watching TV just before 10pm on Sunday night when the nutter walked past our window. The path on the front of our terrace is used for access only through the front gardens of the five houses on our row. It doesn't go anywhere else and the only person who uses it, apart from our neighbours (very occasionally), is the postman. So when we see a shuffling loon go by during Cranford (not that either of us watch Cranford, or would be aware if it was actually on that night) our suspicions are naturally raised.
Next thing we know, he's knocking on the door. Or hammering might be the more accurate term. I go to greet him with a smile...
"Can I help you?"
"Is your dad in?"
"No, sorry, I think you've got the wrong house. My dad doesn't live here, he lives over in Slawit."
But that isn't enough to satisfy the nutter. The nutter is insistent.
"Older bloke, dark curly hair, I saw him here last week."
"OK. 1) Yes, my dad's older than me, well done. 2) He hardly has any hair, he's in his 80s and balding. 3) You didn't see him here last week. You didn't see anybody here last week because we've just got back from our holidays."
"Are you sure it wasn't you?"
You can ask your own questions about this particular switch in tactics. Either he's looking someone older than me with curly hair you're looking for... or it's me. If he doesn't even know that...! And secondly, "who the hell are you and why do you think I have to answer your questions anyway, you overly aggressive simpleton?"
This conversation may have continued indefinitely ("Was it Harrison Ford?" "Are you sure it wasn't a gorilla?" "I definitely met Fidel Castro, here, in this house, last Thursday night at 9 and we played draughts. He won me two nil." etc...) but then Louise appeared and told the nutter, "thank you, goodnight" and slammed the door on his stupid face. The nutter eventually buggered off, and we hoped we'd seen the last of him.
Wednesday evening this week, he was back. He walked past our front window again, on his mobile phone, staring in at us. He didn't knock on the door this time, but a couple of minutes later he came back the other way. Then he disappeared...
...until the following morning. I'd already left for work when, at about 8am, he came knocking again. Turns out he'd been waiting outside since 6am - waiting for me to leave - so that he could confront Louise on her own... and tell her...
"I thought you should know. Your partner's sleeping with my ex-girlfriend."
Louise tried her best to explain that this was highly unlikely since I rarely leave the house except to go to work, but the nutter had been doing his detective work and put together an air-tight case.
"My mate told me he lives on this road, he's got dark curly hair, he goes walking his dog up past my ex's place all the time, he drives a black Fiat, and he works just behind the school."
Oh, well, in the face of such incontrovertible evidence, I give up. It's a fair cop. Sorry, Louise it must have been me all along. Wait... hang on a minute!
Furious by now, Louise went to great pains to point out that a) my hair isn't curly, it's quiffed; b) we don't have a dog, we have three cats; c) I don't drive a black Fiat, I drive a silver Toyota; and d) I work in Bradford - 20 miles away from "behind the school"!
Eventually the nutter went away and Louise called the police. As he'd been kind enough to leave his name, she passed that on. Apparently he's "known to them", though they wouldn't elaborate on what that actually meant.
Now I've written this up in quite a light-hearted fashion but I'm actually quite angry. No, scratch that, I'm furious. I'm just hoping this is the end of it and the last we'll see of him.
I'll keep you informed...
