The Girl, the Dog and the Writer in Rome

eating seaweed and feathers. Might not even be a child. Could be a dog … or a cat … or one of those pot- bellied pigs that folk are so mad about nowadays.’ Freja stifled a giggle. She liked the idea of being a pig and felt a sudden urge to oink. The knee and slippers retreated and there followed a series of sounds from the kitchen — kettle boiling, bickie jar being emptied onto a plate, fridge opening and closing. Finally, the shuffling returned to the living room and Freja watched as the lounge sagged and groaned under the weight of an ample bottom. Mrs Thompson gobbled and slurped, muttering through mouthfuls of biscuit about weird hippy people who didn’t have the common decency to own a television. And then, suddenly, she began to snore. ‘Goody,’ whispered Freja. ‘Safe.’ Lifting the tablecloth, Freja crawled out of hiding and stood before Mrs Thompson. The woman snorted, sucked on her hairy lips and settled back into the rhythmic snuffles of the deep sleeper. ‘A walrus in powder-blue slippers,’ Freja whispered. ‘Not so scary.’ A loose thread hung from the sleeve of the babysitter’s beige cardigan. ‘A moulting walrus,’ Freja whispered, then leaned forward to pull the thread free. It was a kind gesture, one that any itching, moulting animal would appreciate. But unfortunately, as so very often happens with knitted garments, the thread just kept on coming.

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