I am the Winker. Hector, for the purposes of this experiment shall be the Winkee.

I caught him peering over his pince-nez at me to ensure that I was behaving myself, naturally I was. He still hasn’t forgiven me for when he inadvertently waded through my freshly siphoned wee in his best dinosaur socks the other evening. I still maintain that the punishment fitted the crime of intentional and wanton abandonment. Regarding the pince-nez, please note dearest reader, he does actually sport these wondrous nose grippers aloft his dignified snoot. It allows him (he believes) a certain amount of gravitas. We haven’t got the heart to tell him. The grip on to his capacious hooter is not dissimilar to a needy barnacle and he looks like he is being assaulted by the ghost of a butterfly.

Anyway, I lay there on my duvet bundle and began to stare intently at him. You will  recall, if you have read a previous post entitled “The Grim Spindle,” that I do like to stare at him, to generate a feeling of unease and disquiet. It is tremendous fun. After a while I decided that really this had become a tad mundane, and so I decided that I would mix it up a little and throw out a casual wink at him, just to see if he would respond. The first time I performed a rather cheerful wink he briefly glanced at me but I assume he thought I had had an unintended twitch. So I did it again, this time with much more emphasis…in acting terms…’I became the wink’. As it turns out this was translated into something which turned out to be a bit more saucy than I had intended. A touch more lascivious than I had hoped for but it did however capture his attention. “The dog just bloody winked at me!” he spluttered to Short Stuff, who was sat in her armchair, lovingly gazing at her mystical crab. She looked up, smiled kindly at him and returned her attention to the shiny glass crustacean, which had something of a somnolent effect on her. She hoped, that she could enter into a state of unrivalled meditation whilst clutching the crab in the hope that she could connect to the spirit world to have a quick chat with Terry Wogan, whom she still missed hearing on the wireless. This by the way is what I have to live with.

Anyway, Hector returned his beady eyes to his phone. The reason for his rapturous attention was an app which announces when the International Space Station is due to pass over us. This causes great excitement with him (and only him) and we all have to trudge outside in support, to watch it go over our heads and chirping in wonderment. Last time this occurred, a loud screaming klaxon went off on his phone to announce the impending ‘fly by’ and I dropped three stitches of my knitting and choked on an inhaled custard cream crumb. Very unpleasant I can tell you. I would also like to add that nobody sprang to my help in this time of peril. I was forced to drink from the nearest receptacle – which turned out to be a perky little Malbec, this softened the blow…or the crumb somewhat.

I stared intently at Hector again. I am convinced I might actually have a touch of the ‘Doris Stokes’ about me, and I don’t need the help of a glass crab to reduce me to a state of serenity. My fortune telling and possible connection to the spirit community is quite uncanny at times. I once picked up an old recording of ‘Miss Moffat’s sensible guide to rationing’ when I was trying to find the Archers. I won’t tell herself as she will want to try and get hold of Wogan again, or worse still Leonard Cohen who she always wanted to ask round for a cup of tea and a fig roll. Alas she left it too late to ask him.

Hector peered suspiciously at me and once again, I winked. He stared. I stared. We stared at each other. Short stuff and the crab were oblivious to this silent standoff. Alas It would seem that a Spindle wink is a touch too much for him. Abandoning all thoughts of satellite spotting he fled from the room.

My work here is done for the day.