Do you remember I was telling you about Cabin 10, Maud? Well, my next-door neighbour is still a mystery…
I know someone is in there, but I’ve never seen anyone go in or out. Scratch that. I have seen several people going in and out, but not the mysterious and esteemed personage, within.
The Captain has been to visit, so has his second in command – First Officer Wheatley, I think. That snide-looking psychiatrist, Doctor Trump, has even been in (the poor fellow looks uncommonly like dear, old Aunty Mimi. I’m sorry, but he does – he has the same pinched look, so why not go the whole hog and pop him in a posey dress and rouge up his cheeks?). Most times these visitors troop out white with fright. They’ve got their marching orders, I think. But only if those orders involve a very short plank, with some grizzly, old sharks flapping about, down below. I’m a drama puss, I know, but they do look uncommonly dispossessed.
Other than the return of Velma – overcome with apologetic curtsies, blushing for forgiveness, or at least a terse ‘Hello, La-de-da,’ as she throws herself onto my couch, arms spread to the back, and then leaning in to light up from the onyx lighter – I shall continue to attend, most attentively, to spying at my keyhole, and the comings and goings next door.
God knows I’ve got nothing else to do.