The Good Part by Sophie Cousens EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Sophie Cousens
- Language: English
- Genre: Magical Realism
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
My bed is wet. Not damp, but properly soaked, as though my pillow has
been used as a sandbag during a flood. Looking up, I see a small stream of
water dripping through the yellow stain on my bedroom ceiling: the source
of my current dampness. The bedside clock tells me it’s five a.m., which is
the worst of all the a.m.s – not early enough to guarantee getting back to
sleep, but not late enough to contemplate starting your day.
Jumping out of bed, I navigate the obstacle course that is my cluttered
bedroom floor and run down the corridor, out of the front door and up the
cold stone stairs to the top floor flat.
‘Mr Finkley! Mr Finkley! Your bathroom is leaking again,’ I shout while
beating on the door with two fists. There’s no response. He’d better not
have died in the bath with the tap running, because then the whole ceiling
might fall in, and I’ll have his dead body to contend with on top of
everything else. ‘Mr Finkley!’ I call again, with more urgency this time,
trying to banish the mental image of my bed crushed beneath a pile of
rubble and bubble bath. Finally, the door opens a crack, and Mr Finkley
peers out at me. He’s in his sixties and has wispy blond hair that sticks out
vertically on either side of his bald pate. His face is all angular features, and
he wears brown-rimmed glasses permanently smeared with grease. Every
time I see him, I need to remind myself not to call him Mr Stinkley, which
is what my flatmates and I call him in private.
‘Bathwater is leaking through the ceiling again,’ I tell him sternly.
‘I was having a bath,’ he says, winding a wisp of wet hair around his
index finger then removing the finger, leaving behind a hair horn.
‘It’s the middle of the night,’ I say wearily. ‘And remember the plumber
saying you can’t have baths, not until you’ve sealed the floor tiles properly?
Any overflow comes straight down into my bedroom.’ My voice is
measured, as though I’m explaining this to a toddler.
‘I don’t like showers,’ he replies, twiddling a symmetrical horn of hair on
the other side of his scalp.
‘Nor do I – especially when I’m asleep, in bed.’ I stomp down the stairs,
calling back as I go, ‘Just put some towels down, please.’
There’s no point trying to reason with the bath-loving lunatic. I’ll have to
call our landlord, Cynthia, again. All any of us knows about Cynthia is that
she lives in Spain, is allergic to cat hair, and is a horribly negligent landlord.
She often berates me for ‘vexing her with our domestic concerns’, but I am
vexed, Cynthia, I am extremely vexed.
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