On something evil lurking in the kitchen
"What – in the name of all that is holy - is that smell coming from downstairs?"
I hesitate to tell her, but the truth must out.
"You know dogs?"
"Yes. Yes we have one."
"And you know that Jackson Pollock?"
She sounds suspicious, and I do not blame her. Poor, dead J. Pollock – he has so much to answer for.
"Well, imagine he had what you might call a 'brown period'. And instead of paint, he squeezed poor, sweet, shat-all-over-the-kitchen Lucy Minogue like a set of bagpipes."
"Right. And how much is 'all over the kitchen'?"
"Further than you think possible. I didn't notice until I was halfway to the fridge."
"Slippers. They are burning outside. That's the other smell."