The glove
I was rushing to the station, walking quick double time as I was already 20 minutes late for an appointment with my accountant. He'd phoned me yesterday, imploring me to come and see him with all the tax related documents which he'd been hounding me for the last month, saying if I didn't get them to him today, he wouldn't be able to complete my tax return. Poor man, he does a great job, considering what a forgetful soul I am. I think in the past year I've missed a dozen appointments with him, and am always late to send him anything that he's requested.
So, there I was, being late again, already wanting to go to the toilet even though I'd only left the house 5 minutes ago; a sure sign of an aging bladder combined with abusing my liver for far too many years.
It was just before I descended the steps to the ticket barriers at the station, when I saw something slightly odd on the wall of the little community hall opposite. It was a glove sitting atop the wall (which came to about chest height), by itself, with no sign of it's companion. A solitary glove. It was made from soft brown leather, as far as I could tell, and looked very expensive - prbably calf skin. The strange thing was that it seemd to still have it's owner's hand inside it. I couldn't be 100% sure of course, as I was rushing, but as I took a second glance at it, it seemd to be moving.
Now, you're probably thinking I've gone crazy, or that I was still hung-over from last night's wine and cheese party at a friend's (excellent cheese by the way). But, it really did move. It crawled forward an inch or two, then raised it's index finger at me and kind of waved. I almost fell down the steps because of this, but quickly reasoned I must have been mistaken and continued onto my appointment.
The meeting with the accountant was extremely dull, but I suppose necessary. I really think the only reason accountants get paid so much is because they have to do such a monotonous job, and nobody else would want to put up with things like "tax returns", which were created to put most mortels to sleep. He did open up a bottle of very smooth single malt whisky though, which another client had given him last month. After my second glass I was feeling very merry, and regaled the accountant with the premise of my latest novel, which he agreed sounded jolly exciting.
Staggering out of his office after 3 hours, I decided to go to a local watering hole in Kichijoji, which was popular with the art crowd and where I'd be guarateed to find somebody I knew. Whilst trying to hail a taxi, I suddenly had the sensation of being watched, which sent an involuntary shudde down my back. I quickly looked around, unable to spot anybody suspicious or threatening. Strange, very strange. It was just as I was getting into a taxi when I spotted the glove again. It was across the street from me, sitting on a green dustbin for glass bottles. There it was, reared up on it's behind, waving from side to side at me, as if it were an old friend. I froze, and all the bonhomie that had been coursing through my veins a moment ago evaporated, to be replaced by cold dread.
I told the taxi driver to take me home, as fast as possible. Surely it wouldn't be able to find me again? What was I thinking? It was a bloody glove! I must have been hallucinating, and it was probably the whisky gone to my head. I resolved to get home, have a long hot soak in the tub, and then have a good sleep - at least 8 straight hours, which would sort me out.
By the time I got home it was dark, and I hurried up the unlit path to my house, my key already in my hand before getting to my front door. No sign of the glove, much to my relief, and I shut the door behind me with a slam, and huffed a huge sigh of relief. What a queer day!
I ran a bath, putting some lavender oil in there for relaxation, poured myself a large brandy, gulped it down in one and poured myelf another. I threw my clothes off, promising to tidy up in the morning, and carried my brandy and my naked self to the hot steaming bath. As I lowered myself into the tub, I exhaled slowly, sighing in satisfaction. I closed my eyes and let the comforting water engulf my stressed out limbs, softening my tense muscles and warming my aching bones. Honestly, I really must lay off the juice from now on, I thought as I sipped my brandy. Obviously it was affecting my mental well-bing. Maybe I'd stop drinking tomorrow...or maybe not.
After and hour of inhaling the lavender scented bath, which had left me feeling rather dizzy, I stumbled out, threw a bathrobe on and fell onto my double bed. Ahh, it was delightful. The soft Egyptian cotton sheets and goosedown duvet lulling me to never-never land. I opened my eyes one last time to check the time on my bedside clock, to see that blasted glove again, sitting there in such a manner as if to say, "Got ya!", before it jumped into the air and onto my face, too quick for me to even scream.
So, there I was, being late again, already wanting to go to the toilet even though I'd only left the house 5 minutes ago; a sure sign of an aging bladder combined with abusing my liver for far too many years.
It was just before I descended the steps to the ticket barriers at the station, when I saw something slightly odd on the wall of the little community hall opposite. It was a glove sitting atop the wall (which came to about chest height), by itself, with no sign of it's companion. A solitary glove. It was made from soft brown leather, as far as I could tell, and looked very expensive - prbably calf skin. The strange thing was that it seemd to still have it's owner's hand inside it. I couldn't be 100% sure of course, as I was rushing, but as I took a second glance at it, it seemd to be moving.
Now, you're probably thinking I've gone crazy, or that I was still hung-over from last night's wine and cheese party at a friend's (excellent cheese by the way). But, it really did move. It crawled forward an inch or two, then raised it's index finger at me and kind of waved. I almost fell down the steps because of this, but quickly reasoned I must have been mistaken and continued onto my appointment.
The meeting with the accountant was extremely dull, but I suppose necessary. I really think the only reason accountants get paid so much is because they have to do such a monotonous job, and nobody else would want to put up with things like "tax returns", which were created to put most mortels to sleep. He did open up a bottle of very smooth single malt whisky though, which another client had given him last month. After my second glass I was feeling very merry, and regaled the accountant with the premise of my latest novel, which he agreed sounded jolly exciting.
Staggering out of his office after 3 hours, I decided to go to a local watering hole in Kichijoji, which was popular with the art crowd and where I'd be guarateed to find somebody I knew. Whilst trying to hail a taxi, I suddenly had the sensation of being watched, which sent an involuntary shudde down my back. I quickly looked around, unable to spot anybody suspicious or threatening. Strange, very strange. It was just as I was getting into a taxi when I spotted the glove again. It was across the street from me, sitting on a green dustbin for glass bottles. There it was, reared up on it's behind, waving from side to side at me, as if it were an old friend. I froze, and all the bonhomie that had been coursing through my veins a moment ago evaporated, to be replaced by cold dread.
I told the taxi driver to take me home, as fast as possible. Surely it wouldn't be able to find me again? What was I thinking? It was a bloody glove! I must have been hallucinating, and it was probably the whisky gone to my head. I resolved to get home, have a long hot soak in the tub, and then have a good sleep - at least 8 straight hours, which would sort me out.
By the time I got home it was dark, and I hurried up the unlit path to my house, my key already in my hand before getting to my front door. No sign of the glove, much to my relief, and I shut the door behind me with a slam, and huffed a huge sigh of relief. What a queer day!
I ran a bath, putting some lavender oil in there for relaxation, poured myself a large brandy, gulped it down in one and poured myelf another. I threw my clothes off, promising to tidy up in the morning, and carried my brandy and my naked self to the hot steaming bath. As I lowered myself into the tub, I exhaled slowly, sighing in satisfaction. I closed my eyes and let the comforting water engulf my stressed out limbs, softening my tense muscles and warming my aching bones. Honestly, I really must lay off the juice from now on, I thought as I sipped my brandy. Obviously it was affecting my mental well-bing. Maybe I'd stop drinking tomorrow...or maybe not.
After and hour of inhaling the lavender scented bath, which had left me feeling rather dizzy, I stumbled out, threw a bathrobe on and fell onto my double bed. Ahh, it was delightful. The soft Egyptian cotton sheets and goosedown duvet lulling me to never-never land. I opened my eyes one last time to check the time on my bedside clock, to see that blasted glove again, sitting there in such a manner as if to say, "Got ya!", before it jumped into the air and onto my face, too quick for me to even scream.
posted by TOK at 4:00 pm
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