Today, the glass in my antique kitchen cupboard gained a 12 inch crack. Clearly it was the fault of the kettle being allowed to boil directly under it. But no one boiled the kettle, since no one was in. The Sofa bed, which in fairness was broken as a result of three large teenage boys sleeping on one single mattress - is now a pile of very nicely painted firewood. No one used that room. Ever.
It gets worse. The ghost has a bladder. Yet the ghost died before toilet seats were invented and as a consequence wees either directly on the seat or 5 inches to the left. I think it is worthy of investigation: a presence that can not be seen but leaves clear evidence. Unusual. Having a house full of male ghosts is the best bladder control method available. Far too many times I have sat on a toilet seat in the dark, only to wish that I had sat anywhere but the toilet seat. Nowadays I would rather be fitted with a catheter than venture into a dark bathroom.
The ghost is getting pretty cocky. Tonight he cut his hair all over the bath, sink and floor. It is suspiciously similar in colouring to one of my offspring. The fact that two of them are away tonight should narrow the options but apparently not. The cropped fibre in the bath is not a genetic match.
So today something equally common and rare happened. A teenager broke the shower. This was a mere 30 minutes after I discovered the cracked glass. What made it rare was that he came and told me.
It was not my teenager, but one of the regulars I find sleeping somewhere. I could have kissed him for his refreshing honesty.
Yet I still have the ghosts
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