There's a strange whiff coming from next door at 222. I say 'strange' but I know what it is. It's marijuana. Lord knows what type – I'm not a connoisseur of these matters but even I know it's ripe. It pen and inks big time. It must be Les smoking it. I think smoking must be his job because I never see him go to work. I call him Les because I don't know his name. I've never spoken to him and I doubt I'll ever get an insatiable urge to speak to him either.
Les. It's a strange name and I don't quite know how I arrived at such a moniker. It's fun to guess whether someone is a Steve or a Neil or a John before you're formally introduced to them. Then you find out they're a Montgomery and it sort of blows your mind because they don't have Monty eyes or Monty cheekbones. Les, though, he's a character. His jeans hang around his arse. But this is no gansta-style fashion statement; he's just crap at wearing clothes. The calorie-laden midriff and holocaust bum cheeks make sure of that. He probably has a belt but I'd put money on him having lent it to one of his mates to make a tourniquet.
And then there's his partner. I don't know her name either. I spoke to her once but she sounded a bit weird. I call her Les too. Her belly is almost as big as the other Les's. I like to watch her muffin-top spill over the pink pyjama bottoms she wears. Wibble wobble.
Here come the kids. I haven't given them names yet. I think they need to grow into their features first. I'm hoping they'll give me some variety. Another Les would be ridiculous.