My bathroom mirror has numbers scored into its surface - why, I have no idea, but their presence distorts my reflection, and last night caused me to see the gnarled visage of old Mrs Cribbage staring back at me in place of my own smooth countenance, a grimace of misery contorting her face. I tilted my head in alarm and noted that the warped mirror image at once changed to a likeness of my late mother, her twisted expression indicative of a person straining at stool.
This caused me no small amount of panic and I fell precariously backwards towards the wall. Before my head could make contact with the cold tiles and speed me towards unconsciousness, I encountered what felt like a great many small hands together supporting the back of my pate and preventing the accident. I now believe that a passing swarm of ladybirds must have flown by at the instant of my faint and somehow impeded the fall. At any rate, this fortuitous turn of events, coupled with the image of my dead mother, calmed me enough that I was able to gain a few hours sleep.
Father Bouffant arrived this morning and helped himself to some of my Supernoodles. He gathered up the children's teeth that he had left behind yesterday, claimed that they were a typical spirit manifestation and secreted them in his pocket for further study when he got home.
He spent the morning watching my television closely in case there was a ghost of a little girl trapped in it, then had another bowl of Supernoodles and left. Only now do I realise where I have seen Father Bouffant before - it was on the television, where he goes by a different name and does not wear a dog collar. He is none other than Derek Acorah of Most Haunted and Ghost Towns fame.
I am puzzled. Why would Father Bouffant, an honest Scots priest, masquerade as a Scouse charlatan on Living TV? This mystery will require some work.
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