Forgotten 1

Arthur woke up and, as was his habit, refused to open his eyes with a loud “No!”. He poked a cautious toe out from under the covers to assess the temperature the hideous experience of getting out of bed would be at. This assessment made he sharply drew his foot back into the safety of his bed and wrote the idea off for the day. And so he would probably have stayed had he not noticed the strange smell of his bed. There was something indefinably different about it. Something that brought back memories of long absent comforts like hot water bottles and bed time stories. It was a smell that bachelor nostrils experienced only in someone else’s bed or on those very rare occasions when great expense and carefully constructed pretence had persuaded someone to share the bed. The bedclothes were clean.

Arthur, clearly distressed, sprang to his feet, planting his back firmly on the bedroom wall with a cry of “Bloody hell!”. He quickly realised that the bedroom wall was extremely cold and that he has all but naked. Another cry, this time of “Jesus H frigging Christ!”, and he grabbed for his dressing gown and fumbled around for something to put on his feet. Or rather, he didn’t. Almost immediately he found a pair of slippers that he was sure didn’t own. Something else was wrong. The floor was normally strewn with carelessly discarded clothes and the assorted detritus of a chaotic room. Such a swift incautious flight from his bed should almost have crippled him. There should have been leads from bedside lamps, lids for things, a can of deodorant, small change, a torch, possibly a screwdriver and probably a multi-tool. Any number of hazards for an unclad foot. Instead he stood on what was not only a clear floor but one that had been vacuumed in the very recent past.

Now feeling deeply uncomfortable Arthur crept out of his bedroom and into the flat. It was spotless. It had a variety of tasteful and arty photographs hung on the walls in well thought-out places. It was tastefully decorated and apparently free of empty lager cans and abandoned takeaway boxes. Arthur looked into the hallway mirror, thoughtfully placed beside the coat rack so that departing visitors could check their appearance prior to going out in public, with some trepidation. His hair, whilst slightly ruffled, was neatly cut, he needed a shave but looked refreshed and sober. His dressing gown was, well it looked more like a smoking jacket. Dipping a hand into the pocket yielded a delicate cigarette case in what looked like regency silver stocked with what were clearly not off-the-shelf filter tips and a fine lighter with a snap-shut lid.

“But I don’t even smoke.”

A thought came to him. He went to the front door and checked the number of the flat. A quick glance around the hallway confirmed that he was in his own home. There were some peculiar noises emanating from the door opposite that ended with a loud SHAZAM, a flash of white light from under the door and the fluttering of wings.

“Tits and arse!,” cursed Lupine, bursting through the door to his own flat wafting thick white smoke into the corridor, “Billiard balls and doves, again!”
“Lupine, what the bloody hell are you up to?” Asked Arthur, trying to conceal how relieved he was to see his friend.
“I was trying to turn myself into a dog but the bloody magic isn’t working. I just got more bloody billiard balls and doves.” Lupine waved his hand in front of his face trying to dispel the reek of sulphur. “Got any coffee on? I think I might need to be out for a bit until the smoke clears.” Arthur turned round to find the door of his flat had shut behind him.
“Ah…..er,” he began, only to find that it came open at a gentle push, it was on the latch. “Oh, er….Come on in.” Arthur turned back into his flat which seemed a lot more spacious than he remembered and into the kitchen which had been totally decked out with top of the range appliances, tasteful and expensive looking units and every conceivable accoutrement that show kitchens in department stores have. There was even a over-designed juicer that looked like some kind of alien spider. In such a kitchen, reasoned Arthur, there must be coffee and at least one way of making it. He opened the most likely looking cupboard to be confronted with a baffling array of coffee making apparatus and coffees arranged in a storage system that expanded out into the kitchen in such a way the casual observer could be forgiven for thinking that the cupboard was larger inside than out. Having selected what he needed Arthur prepared himself for the ordeal of forcing the complicated storage mechanism back into a physical space that did not look like it could contain it. He pushed on a shelf and the entire thing re-folded itself and slipped back into the recesses of the cupboard, shutting the door behind silently.
“Wow!” They chorused.