Ghost-Knocking

Me and Dorty fell victim to the age-old prank of ghost-knocking. The sort of prank that used to require the contents of my mum’s sewing box and rubber-soled shoes.

Picture the scene: all was peaceful in the Angel-a household. It was dark and the house was all cosy with the curtains shut. CSI on tv, a cup of tea to hand. Then came a knock at the door. And another. And another. Reluctantly, I paused Warrick getting his kit off and went to see who it was.

There was no-one there.

Then I spotted it. A length of cotton tied to the door-knocker. And I could just make out two indistinct blurs lurking on the green near the goalposts.

Dorty was outraged (it seems I’ve brought her up far too well). She grabbed the 5 million candle power spotlight torch and suddenly the young ruffians were illuminated, frozen like rabbits before headlights.

They scurried away to the sound of our laughter.

Ah, how the tables can turn.

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