Yes, Constant Reader, it has taken me a few days to be able to confront what happened on Tuesday night but I am here to tell you... I am a Soho Sex Prisoner survivor.
For the few who have not visited the shop, there is a communal front door for us and the flats above, shop door on right, flats door in front of you. Oh and the shop doors have no windows apart from a transom above. There I was with jacket on in the shop, due to meet Lady Miss Coates for a snifter before she spun the toons at the Retro Bar Pop Quiz - have I mentioned my 21 wins? - turned the shop lights off, nipped to the lav before the arduous trek twixt Soho and Strand, and as I came back in from the back, I saw 'Y' who lives in one of the flats above us walk along in front of the window with a young homosexulist.
I saw through the transom the outer door open and close and the sound of shopping being put down on the floor. After checking I had my mobile phone - so called because I cannot walk five paces if it's not on me - I made my way to the door thinking "Funny I didn't hear the flats door open and shut'. Just as I reached for the knob, I heard a noise. From beyond the door I heard what sounded like a slightly malfunctioning Dyson. Then I heard a slurp. And the squeak of Trainers on vinyl flooring. And it slowly dawned on me I possibly wasn't the only one reaching for a knob.
Yes, Constant Reader, the chap who lives above the shop was having a quick knee-trembler with his bit of trade. And I was trapped. What to do? Turn the shop lights on giving them some sudden if much-needed light and possibly a heart-attack? Do I throw the door open and push my way through the gay sex love action to get to the front door? Do I slowly open the door and try to squeeze around them hoping my presence would not be detected as they had more pressings things on their... well, more pressing things? My thoughts were interrupted by the shop door starting to rattle and judder like something out of THE EXORCIST and the deeply irritating sound of loose belt buckles jingling.
Just as I arrived at my solution, namely letting them use the basement then charging punters to see the live sex show, there was a bit of frenzied whispering, more vinyl floor squeaking... and silence. This was broken by the sound of 'Y' saying "Well you know where I am if you are ever in Soho", the door opening and the two of them walking off. After extracting myself from the poster rack where I hurled myself in case they saw me I gingerly stepped outside the door. Amazingly I didn't skid completely upsy-dutch so they obviously have good aim if nothing else. Cue me running through Soho, giggling hysterically on the phone to Owen and racing to tell Dawn of my Soho Sex Prisoner Hell.
On the whole she was sympathetic despite calling me a twat for not securing the mobile phone video footage so beloved now of breaking news stories.
I do so look forward to bumping into 'Y' and having our usual discussion of the way the nasty postman leaves elastic bands off the letter bundles in the vestibule. Can't wait to see his face when I tell him it's not quite the same as someone having a sex wee there!
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