Things are becoming more surreal at the Loft.
Last night I convinced myself that my neighbour, the Finnish blonde, was dead. When I came back to the house in the early evening I noticed that her doors were wide open. Although this isn't unusual (it must be very safe in Finland), they hadn't changed position from the time I went out earlier in the day.
This worried me, and I vaguely peered through the gloom into her flat. It was very dark and I am slightly ashamed to say that I lost my nerve. I scuttled up to my flat for inspiration.
Fortunately, my friend, the Gentle Giant, Glenn, arrived a short time later and after consuming a couple of stiff gins, I suggested that we venture down there to check out the scene. We stumbled down the stairs nervously. Just as we approached her door, however, the sound of the television blared out and all was well.
I think I had let my imagination get carried away with itself a little. This wasn't helped by the fact that I've heard a couple of gruesome stories of the dead neighbour type recently and my subconscious was probably being influenced by them. The most recent of these stories included the detail that dead people smell like a butcher's shop after a while, and I was convinced in my earlier investigations of the hallway that I could smell fresh meat. Possibly I've been a vegetarian for too long and I'm starting to have bloodlust hallucinations. I'll talk to my shrink. Again.
Weirder than this interior and rather odd dead neighbour paranoia, however, was when I showed Glenn the PP's jazz mag hideout, only to discover that Mayfair has been joined by a copy of Rustler. Does pornography have a tendency to breed pornography, although it may interesting to discuss, I mean this as a literal rather than a philosophical question.
More than this however, we noticed four carrier bags stuffed with what Glenn described as "vintage porn" - that's FOUR carrier bags, dear reader, and I use the term 'stuffed' entirely correctly, although 'crammed' would also suffice. I let Glenn investigate, as he appeared to possess a more discerning eye on the material than I, and he wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans after with a dubious and slightly nervous look.
"Oh God," he said faintly, "It's probably used."
Glenn thinks this one would even have Sherlock himself stumped. Judging by the amount of dirt mags down there, and the fact that Holmes never seemed to get any action after Irene Adler, I'm inclined to agree it would certainly keep the great detective busy for a good few hours.