Flat Nine

© 2011 David Jasmin-Green.

I thoroughly enjoyed tearing this story out of my head and putting it down in black and white at a frantic pace – in fact it's one of the most enjoyable writing experience I've ever had. I've been trying to create something new, something different, something else for a long, long time. You can call me disorganised or inefficient or whatever label tickles you, but what comes out isn't always what I planned or expected or hoped for. That's the way it is for me, I'm afraid. I guess Flat Nine is as new and fresh and different as anything I'm likely to produce, or maybe I'm excited simply because I've plummeted to new depths of depravity. Whatever. I just hope that some of you get as much pleasure from reading it as I had from witnessing it unfold and bear fruit. Enjoy.....

The void. An inconceivably vast, lonesome, sometimes extremely dangerous emptiness. And so silent – how could I forget to mention the unyielding silence? I've been here a while now, but don't bother asking how long because I couldn't tell you. I'm only just beginning to get my head around the intricacies of this baffling environment, so I can only tell you what I know, or to be more precise what I suspect I know. Brrr brrr. Brrr brr. Brrr brrr.....
“Oh, hi Clive, long time no see.” Sorry folks, I'm on the phone, I'll only be a minute. “Yeah, I'm fine, mate. Do you still drive the number nineteen bus between Not Really Picadilly Circus and Not Quite Kilimanjaro? Still living in that abandoned Betelgusian UFO high on the slopes of the Andean Altiplano that you moved into after you were evicted for non payment of rent? You've moved to a maisonette on the dark side of the moon? Lovely. I suppose it is a little better than that bungalow in the Asteroid belt you were offered even if it did come with a state of the art, low maintenance solar force field. And it's definitely better than the bedsit on bloody Jupiter – you couldn't even see anything out of the windows except for swirling gas clouds and the odd weird, inflatable lifeform whizzing past at a thousand miles an hour. Still teaching whelks circus tricks and collecting cornflake boxes, are you? Still having what most people would regard as inappropriate relationships with assorted pinnipeds and the occasional otter? Don't worry, it's a common kink..... How's the missus and kids? Vaporised? Really? I'm sorry to hear that, you must be absolutely devastated. Aah, you're not devastated – as far as you're concerned the death ray was a godsend and you're glad that the useless, style cramping bastards were frazzled beyond recognition. Okaaaaay..... Right, see you when I see you, then. Take care, bud.”
Sorry about that. That was Clive. Clive's a zebra, by the way, and he's from Japan. Well he's not really a zebra, that's just a convenient title, but he looks like a zebra, more or less, especially if you stumble across him in poor light and he happens to be walking on all fours for some reason, like if he's lost a contact lens or something. If you examine him a bit closer he has hands and feet instead of hooves, and he's multi-talented – he's a respected Surrealist painter, an avid photographer, a multi-world speed ironing and toad hurling champion and a brilliant swordsman, amongst other things. He wears huge x-ray Ray-Bans that conceal his oriental features for reasons that he refuses to go into, but I strongly suspect that he's a fugitive of some sort and disguise is a necessity..... He wears a distinctive purple pork pie hat, and he speaks fluent Swahili. Clive displays a whole lot of unzebra like features, come to think of it, but I'm not going to bore you with any more details or I'll end up talking about him all day – he's a great guy, even if he is an inscrutable Japanese bastard with an overwhelming aquatic mammal fetish.
Now where was I? Aah yes, the void. Actually it isn't entirely empty and it's not at all lonely if you're void-wise and you know where all the cool cats (and cool Japanese bastard zebra type things) hang out. And it's not too dangerous most of the time, as long as your eyes aren't too shifty and your face is capable of carrying an anonymous, couldn't care less expression (if you have a face, that is). You'll get by fairly safely if you're reasonably well armed both mentally and physically and you know (or at least sort of know) what you're doing.....
But it's not exactly the void that we're speaking of, so forget I mentioned it. I left the void behind me aeons ago after an incalculably long period of apparently aimless floating, and eventually I landed slap bang in the middle of the Mystery with a capital 'm'. This place exists at the very edges of emptiness; it's a place between your world and countless others where everything looks and feels real and solid (well, mostly), but things aren't nearly as real and solid as they seem, if that makes sense. It's immensely difficult to describe the Mystery and its infuriating whys and wherefores unless you've actually been here and experienced it first hand. In my opinion this place is a sort of dumping ground for excess mental baggage, lost souls and a whole heap of other stuff from a number of largely undisclosed sources, but don't bother quoting me on that because it's only an opinion and no one (apart perhaps from God) knows the truth; opinions are ten a penny here, and the denizens and visitors and wanderers you're likely to come across on your travels will express an infinite number of radically different ones if you ask them nicely (or you know how to wangle their opinions out of them).
No matter how persuasive the scenery looks in the Mystery you have to bear in mind that we're more often than not dealing with mirages, with falsehoods and props. We're dealing with a transient, sometimes tacky looking reality made up of the thoughts and experiences of the dead and the living, the never lived in the usual sense of the word and various in-between, uncategorised nearly living states rather than trickery arrived at by the cunning manipulation of plywood and polystyrene and a convincing lick of paint. The scenery can dissolve at any time for no apparent reason and be replaced by, well, anything really, and I mean anything..... This is the Mystery with a capital 'm', remember, and anything goes.

Now that's a good start, isn't it? I was about to tell you about the open air restaurant beside a beautiful tropical lagoon where until very recently I was dining. I was going to describe in magnificent detail the Oprah Winfrey fruit bushes (each little grape like fruit had a grimly serious Oprah Winfrey face, and they were whining apologetically about crucially important social issues in unison). I was going to blather on about the vast Mini Cooper producing palm trees and the flamboyant, heavily armoured sentient land crabs that drove around recklessly in semi-mechanical soft fruit vehicles tooting their horns, running over old ladies and school kids and calling each other 'wanker,' but all of a sudden its all gorne.....
I guess there's no point telling you about the alternative Pina Coladas (which mainly consisted of washing up liquid and dead flies, or a least that was what my senses told me) and the Vanquished Lemon high octane rocket fuel cocktails I was drinking. There's no point in describing the parrot and gimp vol au vents and buffalo mozzarella and Filipino flight controller hors d'oeuvres I was nibbling on (don't ask, it's a long story and it's nowhere near as exciting as it sounds). There's no point telling you about the topless, multi-titted half human, half Siamese cat waitresses (they were interesting to say the least) or the crayfish/gorilla hybrid head waiter who randomly snapped off the waitresses' limbs with his monstrous claws when they even slightly pissed him off – there's no point telling you about the huge, completely insane mutant starfish Maitre'D who skulked around flicking peanuts at George Bush and Snoop Dog, badmouthing Ella Fitzgerald and biting the heads off cocker spaniels that he pulled tail first from a bright green, seemingly bottomless robotic cocker spaniel dispenser that followed him everywhere he went. The lagoon and its fascinating residents vanished in a puff of smoke, and it was replaced by a poky little flat with the curtains drawn and no lights on. As far as I could determine I was the only living thing there.

“What am I supposed to do now?” I cried.
“You could start by turning me on,” a voice mumbled from a particularly shady corner.
“Who might you be?” I said. “And why would I want to turn you on? It's too early to determine whether or not I fancy you. I suspect not, as you sound distinctly masculine and I am (or was) a dedicated heterosexual, but this is a mind-fucking place if ever I saw one, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if I found you irresistibly attractive – but I shouldn't have said that, because I don't want to tempt fate..... Look, where am I? Why am I in this dark flat?”
“I meant turn my switch on so that you can see, you dickhead,” the voice replied. “Chill out - coming on to you is the last thing on my to do list, believe me. You may not have noticed, but it's very dark in here. I'm an electrical appliance, I'm the standard lamp in the corner. Turn me on so that you can see me and I can see you. In answer to one of your other flippant questions, this isn't just any old flat. This place is special. You're a guest of flat nine, Sweetly Scented Gusset Gardens. You'll like it here. Boy, we're gonna have a party..... Or at least some of us are. But before we go any further, kindly introduce yourself; I don't like talking to potentially dangerous strangers, especially intruders – it makes me nervous. This is private property, I'll have you know.”
“I'm not an intruder,” I said, tripping over a coffee table during the impromptu game of blind man's buff. The coffee table screamed and sent several items of distressed crockery clattering to the floor. “To be classed as an intruder I'd have to have entered this humble abode of my own accord, and I did no such thing. Until a few seconds ago I was relaxing in a posh open air restaurant beside a fucking picturesque tropical lagoon ignoring the Oprah Winfrey fruit to the best of my ability, trying not to get too upset when the head waiter butchered the beautiful topless waitresses with his bloody great claws and doing my best to understand why the giant starfish Maitr'D was biting the heads off cocker spaniels. I was sipping a selection of unusual cocktails, partaking of the equally bizarre cuisine and vaguely beginning to enjoy myself, but then my surroundings suddenly vanished. It was replaced by this seedy flat, or else I evaporated and re-materialised here, I'm not sure which. The restaurant was by far the pleasantest place I've visited since I was transported here. It was much safer than the crocodile type predator infested Stock Exchange, the glowing purple swamp inhabited by millions of violent, semi-aquatic Oompah-loompahs, vicious giant salmon and Paul McCartney, their wicked, rather fish oriented king, and it was a whole lot more satisfying than that sickeningly pink bloody Barbie world I was stuck in for what seemed like weeks..... This is a very strange, deeply disturbing dimension, and I want to go home.”
“And where might home be?” the lamp said as I switched it on. Its face was covered by a dusky brown and beige paisley patterned lampshade, but I assumed that it had a face – it appeared to be a burly man partly transformed into a standard lamp, so I could see no reason why it shouldn't.
“Home is a mediumish, nondescript town in the West Midlands, England,” I said. “It's called Walsall, and I don't suppose you've heard of it; most folk haven't.”
“No,” the lamp said. “I'm originally from Cornwall, which is near Guatemala.”
“A traitor called Lord HawHaw who made a number of propaganda radio broadcasts during the war described Walsall as a dirty little place full of fish and chip shops, and that describes it down to the ground,” I continued. “It's famous for the leather trade; they sell fine saddles all over the world. Oh, and Sister Dora, a sort of poor man's Florence Nightingale. The town used to be famous for heavy industry too, but most of that has died off now. And there's not much else apart from mostly shitty council estates, really..... It's not the most inspiring of places, I'm afraid, but it's home, and I want to go back.”
“I've never heard of Lord HawHaw,” said the lamp. “We must be from different time zones. What century did you live in, and which war are you referring to?”
“I was born in the late twentieth century, and I somehow managed to make it to the twenty first. It was 2011 the last time I checked, early August on a Sunday afternoon and I was looking forward to my roast beef dinner, which was very nearly ready.....”
“That explains it,” the lamp replied. “I wasn't born until 2090 and just before I found myself here it was 2138, just after the Third World war ended. Unlike yourself I don't want to go back – life there was way too complicated for my liking. I'm happier being a standard lamp in this godforsaken place, thank you very much.”
“Hmmm,” was all I could think of saying.
“You still haven't introduced yourself,” said the lamp.
“Neither have you,” I replied. “You could be anyone. You could be Benito Mussolini, conqueror of Abysinnia and dictator of Italy. You could be Lassie or Skippy the bush kangaroo or Flipper the fucking dolphin. You could be Charlton Heston or Rolf Harris or Des O' freaking Connor. You could be a transgender version of Ethel Merman or Britney Spears or Mother Teresa. You could have a secret agenda that you don't want me to discover until it's too late for me to escape your evil clutches – you could be a cunningly disguised ravenous polar bear contemplating my edibility or a twisted mutant shrew called Dennis who wants to turn my bones into brooches or a specimen collector from a zoo a trillion light years away for all I know.”
“I'm none of these things and you know it, I'm a human frigging standard lamp,” the human frigging standard lamp said. “Anyway, I asked first, so it's only right that you go first.”
“Shan't,” I said, folding my arms protectively.
“Ooh, all right then..... My name is (or was) Pristine Devine, and I'm a former exotic dancer and would be glamour model. That wasn't the name my mother gave me, of course; I was christened Glennis Jemima Dimblebury, but that wouldn't have gone down too well career-wise so I changed it as soon as I came of age. I was an incredibly beautiful woman, or so I was told, and a bit of a slag to tell the truth, largely because I was peeved at being unlucky in love, but for reasons that I don't understand I mysteriously changed sex shortly after I arrived here. And then I began to transform into a human frigging standard lamp.....”
“How exactly does that work?” I said, my curiosity getting the better of me. “I mean, the conjunction of electrical parts and human biology with its inherent wetness, it doesn't sound right at all, but I guess nothing is right here. Can I see your face and your, erm, bulb?”
“No, you bloody well can't,” Pristine replied. “Flipping cheek - surely a former woman is entitled to some privacy.”
“I see..... You earned your living on Earth flashing your gash and jiggling your titties around for countless grubby, frustrated men to ogle, but now you're not even willing to show me your light fitting. Fine! See if I care.”
“It's your turn now, fuck face,” Pristine said. “Put a name to your hideous, furry visage and ladle out some delicious details for me to savour to break the bloody monotony – I feel like I haven't spoken to anyone for years.”
“Right, I will. My name is, or was Peter Jones before I inadvertently went Walkabouts, until I was dragged kicking and screaming into the Dreamtime. It's a boring name, I guess, but it's the one I was born with - that's life. I was married with a couple of kids until five years ago when my missus ran off with a door-to-door rug salesman out of the blue. Bastards..... I worked in a shoe factory for a number of years, but the company folded during the recession and I was made redundant. I managed to get a job with the borough council in the Poll tax office after a while, but that didn't exactly work out for me because I developed a crush on a member of the public that I couldn't control. Her name was Avril Campbell, and shit, she was gorgeous. She was half Jamaican and half Irish. What a woman..... You should have seen her arse and her legs and her fucking tits, they were like big, ripe, juicy melons.
Avril was a single parent; she was piss-poor and down on her luck, and I guess I was blinded by her beauty and I foolishly tried to take advantage of her predicament. I was reprimanded for making lewd comments to her while she was trying to pay off her debt. I had a warning for that and I promised to mend my ways and keep my eyes to myself. I tried to behave myself, honestly I did, but I really couldn't – I was caught hook, line and sinker.
I started secretly seeing Avril in my own time, which was strictly against the rules, of course. It went well for a while, or at least it seemed to. For several months she shagged me half to death, but then I discovered that she had a serious drug problem which she paid for by selling her delectable bod in the local red light district. I confronted her about it and she dumped me and shacked up with her dealer, and he and a couple of his mates beat the living crap out of me. It was too late to sort the mess out then because I'd juggled the figures on Avril's records and transferred a substantial portion of her debt to other folks' accounts. I thought I was too clever to get caught, but my subterfuge was eventually spotted. I was sacked immediately and prosecuted – but I didn't actually turn up for the hearing because I was somehow whisked to this freak show a few days before, a few weeks after I discovered that my lover had given me a dose of the clap as a parting gift. I had a number of massive shots of antibiotics, so hopefully I'm clean now.”
“Nasty,” Pristine said. “But life isn't always sweetness and light, is it? How long were you here before you started growing that lurid ginger facial hair? And do you have any inkling of what you're turning into, because right now it's difficult to tell.....”
“Not long,” I replied. “I guess I'm turning into a big old pussy cat, or at least a pussy cat type thing. It's a slow process, though..... Just lately I find myself unconsciously purring, and strangely enough it's curiously comforting. Look, who lives here, apart from you?”
“No one at the moment; excepting the furniture and fittings the flat is vacant. Unlike most sections of the Mystery this suburb seems pretty stable. As far as I can determine I've been here for quite some time and the décor doesn't change much, but maybe that's an illusion – maybe I've only been here for seconds and it just seems like years. I've had a number of tenants, mostly unsuitable ones from my point of view, but I quite like living alone and perhaps I'm just a born incompatible. But I still get lonely sometimes.....
Do you remember Dylan, the hippy rabbit from the magic Roundabout? He lived here for a long time. He kept me awake all night strumming his stupid plastic guitar, talking utter, unmitigated bollocks and poisoning the atmosphere with cannabis and opium fumes. I had the questionable pleasure of Shirley Temple too – the little brat was singing and dancing twenty four seven and she kept leaving sticky lollipops all over the place. She was eventually eaten by a large, slimy alien that slithered through the window one night - I told her to keep it closed, but she ignored me. The damned thing left slime trails everywhere and it eventually laid a huge clutch of phosphorescent lemon yellow eggs; they hatched into psychotic, rabbit sized cockroach thingies that devoured their dying mother and chirruped incessantly for five consecutive nights, chewing holes in the upholstery and crapping on the carpet until they were strong enough to fly off in search of sustenance.
But the alien and her offspring were angels compared to my worst tenant of all time, a zebra like creature called Clive. What a knob - he was a bloody nuisance, and his iniquities were bottomless. He used to keep my light on most of the night giving me truly awful headaches while he was painting huge Surrealist canvases or taking photographs, practising his speed ironing technique or hurling terrified toads at targets. He taught whelks circus tricks and had wild sex sessions with assorted seals, walruses, dugongs and sometimes Tarka the otter, the sick fuck..... He collected cornflake boxes of all things – they were bloody everywhere – and he was forever on Brian, the phone, selling fraudulent cheese franchises to naïve foreigners with more money than sense. Poor Brian almost had a nervous breakdown.
Clive was nasty to all of the appliances, particularly Meena, the fridge; he interfered with her, if you know what I mean..... The last straw was when the evil git murdered his wife and kids with that bloody great Samurai sword that he carried everywhere and dissolved the remains in sulphuric acid in Sandra, the bath, and he had the cheek to tell everyone that they'd been vaporised by a Martian death ray. I encouraged him to commit harakiri with his sword, but he wasn't having any of that. Sheila, his missus, was a lovely girl, a large, fluffy orange frog-cum-turtle thing with a long neck. The kids were so pretty – they looked just like their mum except for their lurid green and white stripes. I was sooo glad when Clive left..... I heard the Triads were after him, and I hope they catch the Japanese bastard and give him his just deserts.”
“He sounds horrible,” I said, guessing that it wasn't a good idea to reveal the fact that Clive was a friend of mine. “Let's hope you get a nice, quiet tenant next time, a member of a silent order of Franciscan monks or someone who's into origami or soft toy making or -”
“Why don't you move in, Peter, even if it's only for a little while?” the lamp interrupted. “I'm sure you're a reasonably quiet and respectable man. I don't mind you bringing girlfriends home even if they're hot, exotic looking ones that howl like the hound of the Baskervilles while they're serviced, as long as you do your private, squidgy business in the bedroom and not in front of me. I bet you haven't had much of a rest since you got here.”
“That might not be such a bad idea,” I replied. “Since I arrived here I've had forty winks now and then, but I can't recall sleeping properly since goodness knows when, and I haven't eaten much either. How much is the rent, and who's the landlord?”
“I'm the landlord, and the rent is whatever you have that I fancy and you don't mind parting with. I don't have much use for money, I'm afraid.”
“I don't have an awful lot, but what do you have a use for that I might possess, apart from my clothes?”
“I don't know,” Pristine muttered. “Empty your pockets, let's have a butchers.” I did as I was asked. One of my jeans pockets contained a number of large elastic bands, half a dozen paper clips and a couple of ball point pens, one blue and one red, a cork that I didn't remember acquiring, two small, shiny black pebbles and a large seashell that were also a mystery to me. The other pocket held my wallet containing five pounds forty six pence, my useless bank cards, a bundle of old receipts and bus tickets, a couple of photos of my kids and one of Avril Campbell with her doobries out that I'd forgotten I still owned. Oh, and my house keys on a little heart shaped keyring.
“Where'd you get that gorgeous heart shaped keyring?” Pristine said.
“It's just a little something that Avril gave me before we split up.....”
“I wants it,” Pristine growled. “I wants that lovely little heart shaped keyring, the pens and the picture of the harlot with the huge jugs. You kept that fruity titty picture quiet, didn't you, you sly, conniving little tinkerer?”
“But you were a woman in your former life,” I said. “Why would you want a keyring imbibed with sentimental value given by a gorgeous if untrustworthy woman with fantastic norks to a rather daft nondescript man, and a topless picture of the same woman? Unless you're a bit..... You know.”
“I might have been a woman in my former life, but now I'm a male standard lamp and I have male needs. Either that or I'm a frigging lesbian – I don't know and I don't fucking care. I wants the keyring because it's a gift from a laaaaady and I've never had a gift from a laaaaady before..... Are you going to hand over the goodies in return for your front door key, or should I kick you out onto the street tired and hungry and pissed off?”
“Actually I'd like to hang onto one of the pens,” I said. “In case I need one, you never know..... How about if I give you the red pen and the photo and I throw in the paper clips?”
“How about you give me the blue pen, the paper clips and the elastic bands?” Pristine growled. “Plus of course the titty photo and that sweet, sweet heart shaped keyring.”
“And that's my rent for as long as I wish to stay here?”
“Yup,” my covetous landlord replied. “You've got it.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Pristine," I said, "but you've got yourself a deal.”

After I'd paid my rent I went to take a look at the bedroom. It was an odd experience to say the least, introducing myself to Sissy and Sam, the midget human bedside lamps, who proved to be as shy about their tissue/electrical interfaces as Pristine. Though their faces were hidden by pastel pink lampshades their little bodies were completely naked, and the cables connecting them to the mains appeared to trail out of their bottoms..... I checked out the wardrobe, which I was pretty sure wasn't sentient until it I opened the doors and it introduced itself in a booming voice that almost blew my socks off. “I'm Clodhopper,” the wardrobe yelled in a vaguely Spanish accent. “And as you might have gathered I'm very, very loud. A voice like mine proves useful at noisy parties and heated debates, but the rest of the time it's a bit of a nuisance and it tends to get on folks' nerves. Sorry, but there's not a fat lot I can do about it..... I only speak when you open me though, Peter, and I promise not to make a sound when you're entertaining or trying to rest.”
“Thank you very much, Clodhopper,” I replied as I fished out some clean clothes that were mysteriously all my size and style. “That's most considerate of you.” I took a refreshing shower with the help of Janet, the Powerhouse 30000 and Bertie, the soap on a rope, dried myself off on Austin P. Quagmire the third, one of the luxuriously fluffy bath towels, and started to get dressed.
“Hello there,” the bed said in a soft, feminine voice as I sat on her. “My name is Candy, and I promise you a good night's sleep without fail, amongst other things..... My pillows are called Toyah and Fizz, the duvet's name is Lady Penelope and the mattress is my good friend Angelica – I'm sure you'll grow to love them.”
“Yes,” I said, a little nervously. “I'm sure I will.....” I made my way into the kitchen and popped my dirty clothes into Phil, the washer dryer; I selected option F, a deep clean, as I hadn't changed for ages and it was only after I'd showered that I realised how much my garments stank.
“Phwoar,” Phil said in a broad cockney accent. “They're a bit ripe, aren't they? Especially the socks and skidders. Never mind, I'll soon have them smelling of roses. Be careful with Meena, by the way – that's the fridge. She's still deeply upset about that Japanese bastard zebra type thing because he got a little over amorous on several occasions, if you get my gist, and she's a trifle wary of men. When Bill, the vacuum cleaner comes in she screams the place down although he's the sweetest soul imaginable and he wouldn't harm a fly..... Just be as gentle as you can with her and try to respect her wishes; she's very religious, you know. I'm not particularly au fait with foreign religions, but I guess she's a Muslim or a Hindu or something. I've tried to be friendly but she refuses to talk to me.”
“Right,” I said. “I'll bear that in mind.” It was only then that I realised I was hungry – in fact I was absolutely starving. I was somewhat surprised to discover that the fridge was covered with a black cloth that went all the way down to the tiled floor. There was a little slit about three quarters of the way up, and in the middle of that small expanse of exposed whiteness was a large fridge magnet depicting what looked suspiciously like Spongebob's eyes. “Oooh dear,” I muttered under my breath. “Why does life have to be so bloody complicated?” I glanced over at the cooker to see if it had any inspirational ideas to offer.
“Don't look at me,” it said in a distinct Southern drawl. “I'm Bud, Bud Fletcher. Pleased to meet you. You cain't cook anything unless you gits it out of the fridge first. That fridge is one iron hearted lady, and you'll have to deal with her yourself because I can't help you – she hates all the men and male things under the sun.....”
“Riiiiight,” I said, turning round to face the black clothed fridge, looking deep into the Spongebob eyes that seemed to penetrate my very soul. “Hi, Meena. How's things? Nice weather we're having for the time of year, isn't it? I don't know about you, but I'm awfully hungry. Would you mind if I lifted your veil and opened your door a smidgen so that I can see what rare cuisinal delights lurk within? Hmmmmm?”
“Go avay,” Meena said very quietly.
“I can't go away,” I complained. “I'm the new tenant of number nine Sweetly Scented Gusset Gardens, and I'm hungry. Actually that's an understatement – I'm completely fucking starving. Look, I don't want any hassle, Meena, and I intend to be diplomatic about this. I respect your religion whatever it is, I'm completely non racist and I abhor discrimination of any kind, but that doesn't alter the fact that I need to get into the fridge for something to eat before I collapse and quite possibly die despite the fact that the goodies I desire are concealed in your sovereign territory.”
“Don't direct your filthy language at me,” Meena said, “because I don't vant to hear it in case I get sexually aroused, a state that's strictly forbidden for unmarried vomen. Also keep your radio avay from me – I hate pop music vith all my heart. I have given strict instructions to Pristine to keep the bloody radio in the bedroom vhere it belongs in case it give me any unwholesome ideas. I am engaged to be married, and I am not vonting to have sex with you.....” It was obvious that she had ignored every word I said.
“I don't want sex with you either,” I replied. “Where the hell did you get that idea from? You're not my type, for starters. Besides, you're an electrical appliance and I'm, erm, a man/pussycat type thing with more biological needs. I just want a sandwich or a tin of cat food, anything remotely edible will do.....”
“I am a voman of high moral standing, and I cannot allow an infidel to interfere vith my holy robes and the immaculate, sparklingly vhite plastic coated aluminium beneath them in case it raises the kundalini serpent, gives him a ginormous stiffie and he loses control – and I can't allow the possibility that I vill lose control in the vake of his passion. I'm sorry, but my gleaming outer casing and my food chilling interior are strictly private; they are for my future husband's eyes only. Now please go avay and leave me in peace.”
“You can't tar every man with the same brush,” I complained, almost at my wits end. “You can't mistrust all males because of whatever indecency that Japanese bastard zebra subjected you to, that's not fair..... Look, how about if I do a deal with you? How about if I have a gander in the cupboard under the sink – with its permission, of course – rifle up some kitchen cleaning products and give you a good clean inside and out? If you like I can even check to make sure that your temperature is correct and you're not harbouring any out of date products or food stuffs that are forbidden by your faith. How does that sound?”
“You vould do that for me?” she said, a tear escaping from beneath her Spongebob eye covers.
“Yes, I vould – I mean would,” I replied.
“Vould you hoover up the crumbs and remove the mouldy crusts of bread from beneath me? Vould you gently dust my delicate, heavily cobvebbed fan and clean my exterior casing vith Cillit Bang cream kitchen cleanser? Vould you defrost me and lovingly vipe out my vulnerable feminine interior vith bicarbonate of soda and promise not to gaze longingly at my icy vhite delights? Do you promise to immediately have a cold shower if my incomparable Eastern beauty proves too much for you and knock yourself unconscious or slice off your dicky if you can't control your disgusting, unnaturally potent carnal longings?”
“Er, yes, of course - that goes without saying,” I said. “I'm an honourable man, and you can trust me implicitly.”

Several hours later Meena and I lay side by side in bed smoking cigarettes, our passion almost entirely spent. In the background the radio was playing something overtly sexual by, I believe, Christine Aguilera, but I'm not very musically oriented so I'm not entirely sure. Thankfully my furnishings and appliances never uttered a word when I walked in there hand in hand with my new lover, lifted her onto the bed, plugged her in and slowly began to remove her black robes and cripplingly sensual lacy undergarments, and my midget bedside lamps had the decency to turn their faces to the wall. The Spongebob eyes were the first things I tore off, and I'm glad to say that her real eyes were a whole lot more appealing.....
“I am doomed,” Meena said as she stubbed out her cigarette. “This is unforgivable; my family vill kill me if they find out about this transgression. My fiancé vill publicly condemn me because I am soiled, I am a low down, filthy harlot, and it's all your fault, you vanker, you cunning, manipulative vestern devil. You're just like Clive, the scheming Japanese bastard. You seduced me – shit, you practically raped me.”
“Bollocks,” I said, taking a long drag on my own cigarette. “I did not rape you, and you know it. And how is it my fault? It takes two to tango, Poppet. It was you who insisted on keeping those exasperating bloody robes on while I blindly did a stock take of your mostly mouldy contents and started to clean you - I couldn't see where I was putting my hands. How was I to know you were capable of unfolding like a damned Transformer? How was I to know you had deliciously tactile tennis ball sized breasts and cigar butt nipples only partially concealed by a half-cut wired bra decorated with tiny interlinked blue daisies? How was I to know you had long, luscious, stocking and sussie clad legs, thighs the colour of milk and a dinky, delectably musky pubic triangle and dangly bits clad in open crotch panties, you little electrical minx? I thought you were just an ordinary, bog standard common or garden talking fridge, for fuck's sake.”
“You seduced me vith your dirty language and your covetous English charm, you vhite bastard. You scratched my breasts vith your sharp pussy cat claws, and I'll never forgive you.....”
“Now come on,” I complained. “I have a deep tan compared to you, Miss whiter than white, because my grandma was half Arab, so don't bother dealing the bloody race card. And you seduced me, you despicable monster..... Just face it, you squealed in undisguised ecstasy when I accidentally sprayed Cillit Bang on your thruppeny bits, and when my bright yellow rubber glove covered hand unexpectedly found your moist secret you pushed me over, dived on top of me and grabbed my cock in both surprisingly soft cyborg hands. 'Oh Peter, my pussy cat, my only love,' I seem to remember you crooning. 'Suck my liddle tiddies and lap at my surprisingly varm love tunnel vhile I violently smoke your pink cigar. Say you love me. Fuck me! Fuck me from back-a-hind right here, right now, and then carry me to bed and do it again, only much harder, from the front vhile I wrap my legs around you, dig my high heels into the small of your back, vhisper every dirty vord I can think of into your cute, pointy ears and shower you vith ardent kisses. Take me to heaven, vhite man-cat. Sock it to me. Ride me, cowboy! Yeeehaaaaaaaaar.....'”
“Oh, all right then, I admit it,” she said, reaching over for another cigarette, one perfectly formed breast brushing my furry cheek and initiating a stirring at the base of my todger. “I might as vell admit it to you, because eventually I have to admit it to my god..... Ve'll have to stop seeing each other like this, Peter - you're teaching me bad habits. Nice, decent Indian girls aren't supposed to smoke, never mind greedily suck cock, rub their crotches into the face of every remotely attractive man they come across and allow haphazard infidels to fill their bellies vith baby gravy. Perhaps I'm not as nice a girl as I thought, and if that's so I guess I''ll have to learn to live vith it.”
“You're a lovely girl, Meena,” I replied. “You're the sweetest, most beautiful thing I ever saw. I wonder what our kids would look like? And you mustn't paint yourself as such a slut..... The way I see it we're victims of extremely unusual circumstances, so perhaps that entitles us to the odd transgression. Maybe we'll eventually return home; maybe I'll lose my pussy cat genes and you'll shed the fridge part of your make-up and revert to womanhood, link up with your fiancé again and live happily ever after. Or maybe we're stuck here. Who knows? According to Pristine, Sweetly Scented Gusset Gardens is fairly stable, so we might be destined to stay together for a while – we might even be meant to be together always. Uncertainty is a killer, isn't it, my love? If we're not meant to be together forever I guess we ought to make the bloody most of it while it lasts.”
“Yes..... Yes, I suppose that makes sense - make the most of it vhile it lasts. You know vhat Peter? My pussy needs another pounding from your firm pussy cat parts. If you're up to it, that is..... Vhat do you say, pardner?”
“Sounds good to me, Squidgy-poohs,” I said, grabbing Meena's firm buttocks as she rubbed her slippery lady bits against my aching tool and I pulled one of the the softly giggling pillows to the spot where I intended to plant her comely arse.