Constructed out of nothing but clouds and asbestos brake-dust, Libby’s house was, literally, a dream of an abode and sat happily amongst the red and golden coloured fallen leaves in the middle of a vaguely imaginary long and winding road. The best things about her home was that it was as big or as small as she wanted it to be and could be situated anywhere she wanted to live. All she had to do was to close her eyes tight, sprinkle self-raising flour on her sparkling silver hair and let her mind wander across rivers, streams, caves, mountains and branches of Tesco Metros until her house found a place to settle for the day.
Blessed with a sense of humour as fine as Tony Benn’s pubic hair, Libby would open the door of her house and flash her ample breasts at squirrels, for a laugh. Sometimes squirrels would get distracted and crash into each other, their nuts scattering all over the pathway, tripping ageing geese. This would cause Libby to laugh raucously, like steam escaping from a kettle, and could, on good days, generate just as much heat.
Libby thoroughly despised the working classes and would make it one of her many daily chores to fire little paper dolphins soaked in treacle at anyone she suspected to be working class walking by. Of course, she avoided poorer areas because she could literally exhaust herself doing so to so many unfortunate people and, drained of her legendary vigour and completely out of treacle, you would find her, stark naked, croaking “Filthy working class bastards!” defiantly from her horse-hair chair on her entirely fictional porch until she could do nothing but stare angrily with her piercing, beady black eyes.
One day – a Tuesday I think (or it could have been a Wednesday – I don’t believe it is important) – Libby died. She had simply forgotten to eat for quite a while and, devoid of food, her body just gave up on her. Her last words were, “Actually, now I come to think of it, I am feeling a little peckish”, after which her stomach danced the Macarena, her rectum prolapsed, her nose fell off and she broke wind loudly but in a extremely very high frequency, at a pitch at which only the dogs and children in the Greater Manchester area could hear. Their parents didn’t believe them, of course, probably because they were northern.
Libby was cremated, then buried, then dug up and cremated again (just to make sure) on a Thursday (or it could have also been a Friday… again, I don’t think it is particularly important to this tale – I don’t know why I brought it up, to be honest) and was finally laid to rest in the fuel tank of a monster truck which went on a never ending tour of famous pub car parks in Essex. No squirrels, geese or working class people turned up to her funeral, which teaches us all a lesson, I think.
There was a will, which was read out at Buckingham Palace – in one of the upstairs lavatories while the Queen was down the bookies. Turns out that she left her house to her favourite member of the Bee Gees, Barry. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been able to find it and now wanders the globe searching for a house made of nothing but clouds and asbestos brake-dust, getting very strange looks from all the passers-by he asks. Of course, that may just be because of the silly, high-pitched, squeaky Bee Gee voice. Wasting his time, if you ask me. Still, it’s not as if he’s interrupting a career or anything these days, is it?