The Phantom Pisser.

The phantom pisser has struck again up ma bit.  Upon leaving the house for University this morning, I was once again greeted with a very unwelcome sight – a piss puddle on my door mat.  I went back inside, sat on the sofa and dialled the local housing association who deals with the majority of tenants in the close.  Their offices being closed, I took it upon myself to take action.  I knocked Alice’s door:

“Look at that! 3 times now.  This is quite literally taking the piss!” I explained angrily.

Alice was heading round to the housing association office anyways, so she told me that she would add it to her list of complaints.  Before we could conclude our brief conversation, we heard a hurried fumbling – Elsie was opening her door. 

“oh, what a terrible mess!  Is it that nuisance dog again?” she commented with concern.

She had good reason to comment on the mess.  The trail of piss extended from near the third floor almost to the front door with inevitably a pause taken at my front door to cause the greatest offence.  I couldn't be arsed listening to her shite patter, so enraged, I climbed the stair to the third floor.  I knocked both doors in unison.  Shona and Mary answered.

“Look, I’ve been here 5 and a half years and I’ve never had a problem with anyone.  For the third time in just over a week somebody has let their dog piss on my doormat and today it has been trailed down the stairs too.  It’s disgusting.  Whoever is responsible, would you kindly ensure that it doesn’t happen again?”

I stood there and listened to the awkward denial by both parties.  Both swore that they would never allow that or would have at least admitted it and cleaned up their dogs mess.  Having felt like it had been dealt with, I headed back down the stairs.  In my absence for all of about 2 minutes, the close had had a make-over similar to a mid 1990's episode of Changing Rooms with Carole Smilie but from Alice instead.  The door mat had been lifted and placed over the banister, pages of the Sun newspaper had been strewn across my doorway, and a new sign had been erected:

Alice seemed more annoyed than me:

“Av telt ye, it’s a fuckin’ bitch that’s sat doon, a female dug, it’s no a dug dug” she said, all the while pointing towards Shona’s flat.

At this point, although I was angry, I was beyond giving a shit about the phantom pisser as Elsie piped up again

“There’s a terrible smell.  That door mat will need replacing! Would you like a lemon loaf?” she added with such an abrupt change in topic that for a moment I didn't know what to say.

So there I am, standing enraged about the events of the phantom pisser and she’s offering me a fucking freshly baked lemon loaf!  I assume that her kind offer was due the the fact that I was visibly riled, but at that precise moment I was tempted to tell her to shove the entire citrusy confection up her arse.  What in the name of God did I need a lemon loaf for? 

I kindly agreed to take half as a whole one would be far too much.  So here I am, sitting writing this with a slice of lemon loaf, a cup of earl grey tea and erecting a sign to ask the phantom pisser to anonymously donate the cash for a replacement door mat...

That is what has happened today up ma bit.

The curious incident of the Dog in the Close.

I suppose I should really start this story from the beginning.  The very beginning would be five and a half years ago, but to spare you some of the details let’s take things back just over a week ago. 

I am not ashamed to admit that I am a highly stressed individual who fails spectacularly at coping with the daily trials life has a tendency to throw at us.  Considering this, my parents deemed it appropriate to take me away from the big smoke for the weekend for some much needed rest and relaxation.  What a wonderful weekend I had, enjoying long walks on some of Scotland’s finest beaches, taking in the fresh air and of course sabotaging the benefits by overindulging in as many treats as humanly possible within 48 hours.  I felt refreshed, restored even.  By the time I was in the car heading home, I felt an overwhelming feeling of dread rising in me; back to reality and ma bit.

Manu came to the car to help me with my bags and as we ascended the close stairs, I was recounting the details of the wonderful weekend I had had.  It was upon the arrival at our doorstep that we noticed a peculiar puddle-shaped stain on our door mat. 

“It must have been a dog desperate to get out who has had a wee accident” I concluded, slightly annoyed but understanding of the situation.  Nobody was to blame.

After having unpacked my bags and settling back in, Manu handed me a piece of paper which had come through our door from Alice:

After deciphering the scrawled handwriting, I laughed to myself – Alice had sent the note as a wind up in reference to an incident in December when Elsie had made an accusation of animal cruelty.  I presumed that after a few too many glasses of Gin, Alice thought she would write this to amuse me.  It did amuse me, and I thought nothing more of it.

Coming forward a week, I’m afraid there was nothing much to report.  Everybody seemed to go about their business and nothing scandalous happened - until Sunday.

After escaping to my parents’ house for the afternoon, I came home to find and A4 printed notice just inside the close.

“TO THE CLATTY RESIDENTS OF NUMBER 23.  

I no longer accept living in your filth.  From now on I will be cleaning my section of the stairs and the rest of you clatbags can rot in your own filth and muck”

I instantly knew that it was a disgruntled Johnny, who (seeing as nobody else gave a shit) regularly took it upon himself to clean the stairs.  All of the residents had noticed that the cleanliness of the stairs was nothing but atrocious, but quite frankly it was nobody’s responsibility to resolve what had degenerated into something akin to a cesspit.  Chuckling to my so called “clatbag” self at yet another passive-aggressive notice being posted, I headed into my flat, closing the door and literally turning my back on the filth outside.

Today I was up early and convinced myself to brave the cold and throw out the bins.  Upon opening my door, I was greeted by the sight of a huge piss marked door mat in front of me. That was it - once is an accident, twice is deliberate.  Absolutely raging, I phoned the housing association and made a complaint.  Wishing to remain anonymous it was agreed that a general letter would be sent out about behaviour of animals and the general cleanliness in the close. 

It was less than an hour later whilst reposing in the tranquillity of my living room that I heard echoing from the landing:

“HAW JOHNNY, AM WANTIN’ A WORD WI’ YOU”

And there I was, crouched behind the door, hanging on their every word…

“Don’t you be callin’ me a fuckin’ clatbag! I’m Mrs.Fucking clean!  I agree wi’ you, it’s a fucking disgrace they stairs. Av already been roon the hoosin’  and the Polis tellin them bout that fucking devil dug an’ they stairs. Bastard ripped ma poaket aff”

A shy and retiring individual Alice is not.

“No, I wasn’t saying it was you. I just find these stairs disgusting…I’ve taken the notice down now.  I’m telling you though, see if I find the bastard that’s been spitting in the stairs…I know who it is, and if I catch him…” Johnny hesitantly added.

“aye, that’s fuckin’ rank, but I’m tellin’ ye….that bastard dug, it’s a vicious cunt.  I’ve already spoken wi’ the maw.  It needs muzzled, ma poaket is the height of a wean. Cooda ripped a fucking wean’s face aff.”

The bitching session lasted a good 10 minutes; all the while I’ve lost the feeling in my lower body from crouching at the door so long.  I had decided - I was going to have my say.

I bided my time, waiting till it was plausible that I had by chance decided to knock on Alice’s door.  As always, she instantly welcomed me in but before entering I paused to point out to her the piss stained door mat in front of my flat. 

So the two of us sat there on the sofa, me telling her about my outrage at a malicious mystery pisser and her instantly forgetting the pleasant conversation she’d indulged in by immediately accusing Johnny with his 2 dogs.  She went on, filling me in on what I’d missed. She’d been savagely attacked by dear old Lassie on her way out for a walk; her “jaiket poaket” had been torn off by the beast mid-rampage.  The maw, or Greasy heid as Alice like to call her had come to apologise:

“I almost kicked that cunt in.  It’s no only the fuckin’ dug needin’ muzzled, its auld greasy heid too!” Alice exclaimed.

“That jaiket is irreplaceable.  I goat it 20 year ago aff a professional shoaplifter. Fuckin’ irrreplacable…”

We were abruptly interrupted by the letterbox being chapped.  It was Elsie.  I’d barely been in there 5 minutes so she had inevitably heard me going to see Alice and couldn’t resist joining in.  For the next hour we were obliged to hear her talk shite about caring for animals, how the stairs were a tragedy and we need to implement a cleaning rota (which conveniently she is too old to partake in) and we agreed. No clear conclusion was reached about what would happen with the dog, the stairs or the mystery pisser.  Elsie took much delight in stating the obvious about how a sheepdog should be running free and chasing sheep….

“you know, it will turn on those children, what a poor creature….but it’s probably because its cooped up all day…” she commented in her ever so proper English accent.

“…anyways, I made a new friend today. She invited me back to her house…she used to live near here…”

Alice and I carefully avoided any eye contact for fear of bursting out laughing.  Elsie’s speciality was starting up conversations with strangers who then found it impossible to get rid of her.

“That’s very trusting going back to somebody’s house Elsie,  I wouldn’t do that…” I added.

“Oh no, she was old….maybe in her eighties…”

Then failing to resist the urge, Alice chipped in:

“Aye, that’s aboot the same age Jack the Ripper wiz…”

That’s what has been happening up ma bit.