The Helen Mystery.

I bumped into an old neighbour of mine today – Helen, who used to live across the courtyard at my last house. I see Helen quite a lot because she, too, has decamped with her husband and children to the next village from where I’m living now and her kids attend the school opposite my house.

Today, however, we met in Sainsbury’s car park where we were both engaged in depositing recyclable waste in the recycling bins. She had four big bags of wholesome waste like ice cream tubs; I had one small bag containing five beer bottles, two beer cans, and a lone plastic milk bottle to offer balance and credibility. And if I’d finished the current litre bottle of scotch last night, that would have been included to challenge the balance and credibility equation further and make it even more realistic. Maybe next week.

The point of the post, however, is to say that there’s something odd about Helen. Whenever I talk to her I become strangely garrulous. As soon as we part I feel inclined to run after her and apologise for hogging the conversation, which I always do approximately in the ratio of about 10:1. Helen has a way of drawing me out, and I don’t know why.