3

Campion stretched out on his chaise lounge, adjusted his silk Chinese gown and lazily sipped his cocktail. The day had been more trying than he had anticipated, Drole had been particularly tiresome, but he had managed to fire off a few barbs at the pompous Santa fools. Perhaps now others would start to ask the same questions and, 'Oh what delicious irony' he thought, his trial may have been the prefect recruiting platform.
His idle thoughts of Santa Land dominance were curtailed by the chimes on his doorbell.
"Drat," he moaned as he rose laboriously from the recliner and made his way to the door.
Campion was surprised to see Drole, with a large Glob loitering behind him, "What are you doing here? I didn't call for you," he said with annoyance.
Drole smiled and replied, "No, you didn't."
"Well, you can go away and take that Glob with you," he said dismissively, as he went to close the door.
"Ah, unfortunately not," replied Drole pushing pack on the closing door, "if anyone's going away it most assuredly is not me," he paused for effect and then continued, "but you."
Campion stopped and narrowed his eyes suspiciously, "What do you mean? Don't be ridiculous, I have a multitude of things to do."
Drole smiled again, "Yes, I'm sure you have. But not here. You see, this is a Grace and Favour apartment, a benefit of being Head of Control. Unfortunately as you no longer hold that position, this apartment is no longer available to you."
Campion waved his explanation, "What tedious nonsense. I shall be resuming my position very shortly, so there's no need to inconvenience me by attempting to move me out."
Again Drole smiled and slowly impaled Campion with his words, "What capacity you will return to work in is currently unknown. It would be presumptuous of you to stay on in the anticipation you will be Head of Control once again."
"No, you're new wife has occupied that position," replied Campion waspishly.
Drole gave a dry smile, one restricted to his lips, and said, "You have one hour to pack and vacate the apartment. Only take what belongs to you. Glob Al will stay here to ensure you leave."
Campion fumed with anger, almost struck speechless by the audacity of the departing Troll and shouted "This is outrageous! How dare you come here and threaten me. I won't forget this you know!"
Drole stopped and turned to face Campion, a look of hard cold steel glinted in his eyes, "Did you really think your plotting would have no consequence? You pathetic narcissistic egomaniac! Be a man and deal with it!"
The two exchanged spiteful looks but before Campion could respond Drole had turned and walked away.
"This is outrageous! Where do you expect me to go? Answer me! Come back here," shouted Campion at the empty corridor.

"I'm glad that's over. It's hard punishing colleagues," sighed Drole as he hung his jacket and closed the door to Spenser's apartment.
Spenser smiled from the sofa as she nursed a glass of seaweed juice, "Would you like a drink?"
"Oh, don't bother, I can get it myself," said Drole as he moved towards the drinks cabinet. He filled a glass with some white wine and then turned to his wife, "Wine darling?"
"No, I'm fine with this," she replied holding up her glass of green sludge.
"What is that?" he asked.
"Seaweed juice, I seem to have acquired a taste for it," she explained.
Drole decided not to comment and came forward to sit on the sofa with his wife.
"And how did Campion take it?" she asked.
"Not well, I'm glad to say," replied Drole sipping his drink.
"Good! I think he's getting off far too lightly considering all the damage he caused," said Spenser.
"Being ignored is deathly to a strutting peacock like him," pointed out Drole.
"If you say so, let's talk about something else," she said politely.
"Yes, let's."
"Do we have to go this dinner with them?" she asked, with a trace of annoyance.
"But we accepted, it's in honour of our marriage," said Drole.
"I know but I don't think I could cope with his loudness," Spenser pleaded and then added, "why couldn't they give a boxed gift like everyone else?"
"Is something the matter dear?" asked Drole, her reluctance to attend was starting to cause him concern.
"Oh, it's nothing; I've just got this evil migraine," she replied rubbing her temples.
"We can skip it if you like, plead ill health?" he offered.
"Oh no, let's get it out of the way; they'll only re-invite," she replied.
They continued to drink quietly for a few moments and then Drole realised the seaweed juice, not only had a very powerful aroma, but was also turning his wife's teeth green. He thought about mentioning it but something in her mood made him stop. He decided to distract her onto neutral ground, "I must say young Kushloo was a revelation; I didn't think he'd be so good in court."
"He certainly put you on the spot," smiled his wife, greenly.
"Quite," he paused, mesmerised by her teeth and then, before she could comment, he continued, "he has a surprising array of talents."
"That's not good," she replied.
He turned to look at her, "Why do you say that?"
"Do you think he can be satisfied as a simple Tally Elf? He's tasted adventure and now standing up to you in court. His confidence is growing; he may soon become a little too big for his Elf shoes."
"I like him, and if he needs challenges to match his skills then I'm sure I can find them for him. Speaking of challenges; have you considered who should replace you in the Tally Room?" asked Drole.
"Elf Alf not suitable?" replied Spenser raising a solitary eyebrow.
Drole pulled a face, a twisting churning visage which perfectly revealed his doubts about the suggestion, "Is he really management material?"
"He's very capable, isn't that more important?" she replied quickly but she could tell he wasn't convinced, "or do you have someone else in mind?"
He remained quiet for a little while, as if to convey his deep thinking on the subject but she wasn't fooled, he'd already thought of someone. After a further tortured pause he finally said, "What do you think of Scuze?"
"That drunk who got off with Campion at our wedding?" she replied quickly.
"I think Head of Lost and Found is more accurate," he corrected her.
"She returns lost gloves," Spenser pointed out.
"She's in charge of Elves."
"One Elf. That slow-witted Olaf," replied Spenser.
"Really?" said Drole quizzically as he rose to refresh his drink, "I thought there were more. Well, that's by the by. She is management after all."
Spenser looked away distracted, sipped her drink, and said "Your choice, but it's not one I endorse."
She turned away from him and a perceptible coolness invaded the space between them, he didn't know why but he was disturbed by her attitude. He looked at his watch and realised they needed to start preparing for their meal with Mr and Mrs Santa Claus, "I think it's time to get ready."
She didn't move but he knew she had heard him, "If we don't want to be late," he added.
"I'm ready," she replied without turning her head.
"Really? Not worried about your Hulk-teeth?" he quipped without realising the enormity of his words.
"What DID you say?"

"The Presidential Suite, thank you very much," said Campion as he stood at the reception desk in the lobby of the Grand Hotel, still wearing his Chinese silk dressing gown and clutching his overnight bag. 'He would show them,' he thought, 'nothing would affect his plans for the night.'
The receptionist continued to fiddle with her paperwork without looking up.
"Come on, come on, tout de suite!" he said ringing the small bell on the marble counter with his palm.
However the receptionist continued to ignore him and carried on oblivious to his presence.
"You there, I'm talking to you, yes you, Elfe…" he carefully read the name tag, "Fey, what a silly name, come on service."
But his insistent and badgering manner had no effect on the Elfe, she continued to fiddle with her paperwork.
The situation was becoming intolerable to Campion, "What is the matter? Are you deaf? HELLO! HELLO!" he shouted loudly, repeatedly ringing the bell on the counter.
The Elfe looked up, "Ah, at last. What is the matter with you?" began Campion but she ignored him, snatched the bell from him, placed it underneath the counter and returned to purposefully ignoring him.
Campion was shocked, his flabber was gasted and his dumb was, well and truly, founded. Before he could speak, and unleash a torrent of abuse upon her, the manager, a portly Troll, came to the desk.
"Any new guests?" he asked the receptionist.
"No, sir," she replied with a frosty smile and then, she looked straight at Campion and added, "Not one worthy of attention."
The penny dropped with a loud metallic clang, "How dare you! You vile insect! You pathetic excremental detritus! I'll crush you! You hear me! I'll ruin you," he roared.
His angry rant grew and grew, feeding upon itself, until it was a volcano of invective, he cursed and spat at them, maligning them, their parents, their near relatives, their distant relatives, and anyone else remotely from the same gene pool. The other guests in the lobby became all too aware of this ruction but perversely chose to studiously ignore it.
"I'm not going anywhere until I get a room," proclaimed Campion loudly, folding his arms and standing stubbornly in front of the desk.
"Security," uttered the manager into his walkie-talkie, "I have an undesirable at the front desk; needs urgent and violent removal."
Campion's courage, though it fought bravely with his arrogance, failed him when the two large Globs started coming towards him. He fled through the lobby, cursing all around him.
The polar winds cut through Campion's silk gown and his casual wear, he shivered involuntarily and cursed them, "I'll have my revenge on you all!"

Elf Alf whistled a jaunty little tune as he skipped up the stairs towards his girlfriend's apartment clutching the shopping bag containing her presents. It was still a little strange going out with Elfe Elsie after she'd used his best friend Kushloo but that was all ancient history now. The trial had turned out better than he'd hoped, she had cleverly shifted some of the blame onto Kushloo ('naughty girl' he thought) and had managed to get away with a very light sentence. 'No make up? That was hardly punishment at all,' he thought. She was a stunning Elfe, with or without make up, and he knew he was very fortunate to be going out with her.
It was good to see Campion get his comeuppance and with Spenser promoted he was the natural choice to get her position. 'Oh yes,' he thought, 'life is bleeding great!'
He tapped on Elsie's door with the same tempo as his whistling and waited for her to open the door. There was no answer. He repeated the knocking, with the same rhythm, but even he had to admit it lacked the previous spontaneity.
Still no answer. He was beginning to lose some of his confidence, "Elsie! You there?" he shouted.
After a long moment her heard her familiar voice, "Who is it?"
"It's me Alf. Come on, open up," he said impatiently.
"What do you want?" came the sullen reply.
"Want? Want?" he asked incredulously, "it's Valentine's Night. I've come with your presents."
"Ahhhh, it's not fair!" she wailed loudly from the other side of the door.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked anxiously.
"I'm uglyyyyyyywaaaaaaaaah!" she wailed.
"Oh, crikey! What's happened?" he asked urgently.
"They made me take it all off," she sobbed.
"What? The make up?"
"Yes, that!" she blubbered.
"Come on, let me in, I don't care about that," he said impolitely.
"You don't care what I look like? Waaaaah!" she said, resuming her previous moaning.
"Off course I care, but you're overdoing it," he explained quickly.
"No, I'm ugly," she insisted.
"No, you're not! Stop being such a mardy-arse. Just put a hat on or something," he pleaded with her.
There was no answer and he was beginning to despair she would ever see reason. He thought he'd try a different tactic and appeal to her greed, "Don't you want your presents?" he asked.
There was long pause but Alf waited her out and finally she admitted in a low tone, "Yes."
"And the chocolates?" he persisted.
A shorted pause before she replied more clearly, "Yes."
"And the flowers?" he said briskly, confident he had her hooked.
"Yes," she replied quickly.
"Well then, open the bleeding door, why-don't-cha?" he said rudely.
"Just a minute," she said as he heard her move away. He waited patiently until he could hear her approach again and the tell-tale sign of the latch being undone. He stepped back, straightened his hat, adjusted his bow tie and waited to greet his beautiful girlfriend.
The door opened to reveal Elsie wearing a paper bag over her head; albeit with three holes for her eyes and mouth.
Alf looked on in disbelief, "What the bleeding hell are you supposed to be?"

Kushloo slowly climbed the stairs to Mr Drole's apartment, he felt a melancholy agitation that was difficult to understand. He wasn't bothered that he didn't have a girlfriend on Valentines night or that none his defendants were actually acquitted, there was something else missing that he was unable to describe. An emptiness at his core that no distraction could fill.
He stood before the large imposing door of Mr Drole's apartment, sighed in weariness, and almost turned back. But the climb had been a long one and he felt foolish leaving without ringing the doorbell.
He rang the doorbell and waited patiently.
Shortly Mr Chunga, the Indian midge who assisted Mr Drole, opened the door, "Ah, Elf Kushloo. How may I be off assistance to you?"
Kushloo surveyed the blue-hued midge, with his crooked ant-like antennae, dressed in casual lounging pyjamas holding a cup of tea.
"I was looking for Mr Drole," began Kushloo, "I just wanted to make sure he wasn't annoyed with me at the trial."
"I do not believe he was. It was a masterly cross-examination," praised Mr Chunga, "Mr Drole would have to repudiate his wife to press the charge."
Kushloo smiled and asked, "Thank you. Can I come in?"
"You may but he is not here," said Mr Chunga stepping aside, ushering the young Elf inside and closing the door.
"I suppose he's out celebrating Valentine's night?" said Kushloo as they walked into the large, somewhat untidy, lounge.
"I would not presume to hazard a guess. The fact is, he no longer lives here; he now resides at his wife's apartment," elaborated Mr Chunga as he eased himself onto the large sofa.
"So who lives here now?" asked Kushloo.
"Mr Munga and I. Just two bachelors together," said Mr Chunga waving at Mr Munga, also a midge, in the corner.
Mr Munga looked at the mention of his name and waved at his friend Kushloo before returning to play with his steam engine. It was a faithful miniature reproduction of Stephenson's original which Mr Munga was trying to run along the track he had laid down. The steam was hissing from the long stack as he fiddled and adjusted various tiny valves to start the great piston moving; occasionally he'd burn his fingers on the hot boiler and cry out silently before resuming his fiddling.
"Will it work?" asked Kushloo.
"I have no interest in his interests but it keeps him amused and occupied," said Mr Chunga nosily sipping his herbal tea. He noticed that Kushloo was looking at his tea and immediately realised his error, "Pardon me for being a poor host, would you like something to drink?"
"Tea would be nice, it is bitterly cold outside," replied Kushloo.
"Ah," said Mr Chunga as he rose from the sofa and made his way to the kitchen area, "love blossoms in all weathers. Herbal tea or traditional?" he shouted.
"Traditional, milk no sugar," shouted back Kushloo.
"Wise choice," replied Mr Chunga, and presently he returned with a cup and laid it beside Kushloo.
Both sat in silence enjoying their hot drinks until Mr Chunga turned to Kushloo and asked teasingly, "You are not with your beloved on Valentine's night?"
Kushloo smiled wistfully and replied, "I'm between girlfriends."
"Let us hope it is indeed between and not at the end," said Mr Chunga.
Kushloo pulled a face at Mr Chunga and then asked, "What about you Mr Chunga? Don't you have a girlfriend?"
"No I do not. I used to be married. Ah, dear Parvati, she was a goddess," he replied dreamily.
"My, you must have loved her," said Kushloo, impressed with his devotion.
"No, she really was a Goddess; a minor deity," corrected Mr Chunga.
"Really?" asked a Kushloo.
"Yes. India is the land of ancient enchantments. We have thousands of gods and goddesses; so it's not a strange matter for it to happen," elucidated Mr Chunga.
"And how was it?" enquired the young Elf.
"Well, you know what happens when a midge marries a goddess?" replied Mr Chunga.
"Uhm," said a confused Kushloo, "no, I don't."
"Don't you?" asked Mr Chunga surprised, "Ah, well, we had too many relatives. Her relatives, their relatives and my relatives and their relatives; they numbered in the thousands."
"Is that a bad thing? Were there problems?" asked Kushloo sniffing loudly, he hadn't realised how cold it was outside.
"Well, you know what happens in Indian dramas, just like that," said Mr Chunga.
"Uhm, I don't know what happens in Indian dramas, I don't watch them," said a confused Kushloo again.
"Lots of shouting, cursing, crying and making up and then repeat every day for forever," explained Mr Chunga.
"Ugh! Sounds tiring," said Kushloo.
"Yes, it most certainly was. That is why I ran away."
"You ran away from home?" said Kushloo surprised.
"Yes."
"Like a little boy?" questioned the Elf.
"I am not a little boy," said an affronted Mr Chunga, "and as I recall little boys try to run away and are inevitably found and returned."
Mr Munga sniggered loudly at the remark before resuming his engine manipulation.
Kushloo looked over at the mischievous midge and a stray thought crossed his mind, "I've been wondering, why doesn't he talk?"
"Why don't you ask him?" teased Mr Chunga.
Kushloo pulled his face again and said, "Seriously, why doesn't he?"
"It's because he had a trauma as a school boy?" said Mr Chunga in hushed tones.
"Really?" replied Kushloo in low whisper.
"Oh yes, they took him to school and it traumatised him for life," said Mr Chunga with a laugh and Mr Munga started shaking his sides in mock laughter.
"I think you two are joshing me," said Kushloo finishing his drink. He stood up and pulled his jacket straight, "I must be going, it's getting late and there's a storm brewing."
Mr Chunga stood up and said, "Why don't you stay the night? He isn't much company, it would be good to have someone to talk to."
Kushloo contemplated the offer for a moment, the apartment was spacious and, although ill-kept, quite decently furnished; much preferable than his hostel room. Mr Munga was listening intently, hoping Kushloo would accept the offer, he nodded his head in encouragement and Kushloo relented, "Well, if you're sure. Thank you."
He took off his jacket and sat back down again, "I pity the fool who's out in this weather."

"I'm Campion, do you hear me! I demand a room in your flea-pit hovel," shouted the ex-Head of Control at the large Glob towering behind the broken reception desk.
The creature made no sound or other recognisable movement that would indicate it had heard Campion; it continued to stare blankly into space. Campion had trudged from one hotel to another, suffering one insolent repudiation after another, until he had ended up at this place. A place so ramshackle and dilapidated no self-respecting Elf would venture to lodge here but alas, this too was off limits to him. He was beginning to understand the power Santa exerted over his fiefdom and, more importantly, the despicable punishment that had been meted out to him.
Powerless in the face of the Glob who didn't acknowledge him or actually make any movement whatsoever, (either the creature was extraordinarily slow-witted or it was actually stuffed) Campion retreated back out of the lobby. It had started to snow now, a nasty wet kind of snow known locally as 'snizzle' (a mixture of snow and drizzle). The wind was getting stronger, "Blast!" muttered Campion as he pulled the wet silk gown around him and wandered off into the darkening night.

* * *

4

---

When Titans Clash

"AH, here are the love birds," said Santa Claus, clapping loudly at the arrival of the chilled pair, Drole and Spenser. The weather was turning severe and they had thought more than once of turning back, but once inside the plush, cosy restaurant, all such thoughts were banished.
A few of the other diners turned to look at Santa and his loud welcome.
Spenser shot Drole an annoyed look and the Troll could only smirk in embarrassment. He obligingly pulled out a chair for her and she seated herself at the table and said coolly, "Thank you, you're too kind. "
Mrs Claus noticed Spenser's cool gaze and asked, "How are ypu feeling dear? You look a little peeky."
"I have a little headache," replied Spenser.
"Oh, I'm sure it'll pass once we have a few drinks," said Santa loudly and Spenser winced a little at the noise.
The waiter quickly served the drinks, Santa having ordered previously, and soon all were merrily sipping away. Drole decided to steer the conversation onto neutral ground, "I thought you both looked very noble in your robes."
"Thank you Drole, that's most kind of you, "said Mrs Claus.
"Yes, thank you Drole," added Santa, "not a pleasant task passing sentences on colleagues."
"And such light sentences at that?" observed Spenser coolly.
The atmosphere inside the restaurant was beginning to match the one outside.
"There's no need for that; we've discussed it already," hissed Drole, leaning in close to his wife.
"No, no, let her speak. Please go on Spenser, I'd like to know what you think," encouraged Santa.
Spenser took a deep breath and began, "For his treasonous acts, Campion is to be ignored? Really? Is that all? Some hermits would yearn for a punishment like that."
"It's punishment enough for a vain person like him," said Santa.
"Exactly what I said. There we are, let's move on," said Drole quickly.
But Spenser hadn't finished, "And his questioning of your right to rule? "
Mrs Claus intercepted the verbal arrow and replied, "Well, that was unfortunate but Kris put him straight. Shall we order starters?"
Drole and Santa exchanged worried looks, this was not the conversation either had in mind when they sat down at the table.
"Yes, you slapped him down but his point stands," stated Spenser.
The atmosphere inside the restaurant was now cooler than the one outside; all three turned to glare at Spenser.
"What point was that dear?" asked Drole hesitantly; he was dreading the reply but hoped against hope that it was an innocuous point.
Spenser took a sip of her drink, paused to compose herself and then pulled the pin on her verbal hand grenade, "Why perpetuate a hereditary principle when there are no heirs?"
Mrs Claus spluttered into her drink sending it flying everywhere, Santa was left open mouthed and Drole snorted some wine up his nose and started choking.
As the startled trio tried to recompose themselves Spenser pressed home her point, "May be you should have let him be Santa; it's not like you can go on for ever."
"Spenser!" shouted Drole angrily in between the gasps.
"Please, there's no need to bite my head off. If I'm saying it, don't you think others are thinking it too?" replied Spenser and she casually sipped her drink.
Mrs Claus began to sob quietly into her napkin and said "How could you say that?"
Spenser's remark had scratched at a very sore point with Mrs Claus; that she had no children who could carry on the Santa tradition. Years of suppressed emotion had been unleashed by the unkind observation.
Drole moved around and tried to console Mrs Claus, "There, there, I'm sure she didn't mean anything by it," turning to shoot a reproachful glance at Spenser.
Spenser was ashamed and tried to apologise, "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to upset you."
Drole smiled tersely and rebuked Spenser for her ill-thought comments, "Perhaps that migraine of yours is catching. I think I have it too."
Spenser shot him a sharp look and turned away from them.
"There, there dear," said Santa moving next to his wife and replacing Drole, "let's not dwell on such things now. There's no use crying over things we can't control. Don't be upset dear."
Drole stepped back and realised the meal was ruined and any attempt to salvage it would be futile, "Let's do this another time?" he suggested with mock humour.
Mrs Santa suddenly sat bolt upright and gave Spenser the evil-eye and said sharply, "Let's not!"
"I think you'd better leave," suggested Santa.
"Yes, I think that's best," said Drole moving away from the table and gesturing Spenser to follow him. She got up quickly, said a barely audible "Good night," and moved towards the door without waiting for Drole. He hurried after her, paused to collect their coats, tipped the head waiter (unnecessarily he thought) and asked for their sleigh to be brought to the front. When it arrived they silently climbed into it, oblivious to the snow swirling around them, and returned in silence to their apartment.
Inside the restaurant Mrs Claus had managed to compose herself and they ordered another round of drinks. Unfortunately the waiter hadn't realised the dinner party was now minus two and laid out the four drinks as before.
Mrs Claus looked at the fresh drink placed in front of Spenser's empty chair and said painfully, "How could she say that?"
"She wasn't feeling herself," replied Santa, he had a soft spot for Spenser and couldn't understand why she had acted this way; it was totally out of character.
"She didn't need to be so cruel," said Mrs Claus sorrowfully and then she turned quickly to Santa and added, "I've always wanted children, you know that?"
Santa held her hands, patted them gently and said, "Of course I do. Now calm yourself, dear. No good will come from dwelling on the past."
She smiled weakly and touched his face reassuringly, "You are a good man," she said lovingly.
"And you are good woman too. I could never have done this without your support; people don't realise how much I rely on you," he said comfortingly and she smiled, a little embarrassed at his effusive praise.
Spenser's words still floated at the table however and Santa had great difficulty ignoring them. After a few moments he gave voice to his dark thoughts, "What worries me is we've never even thought about a succession."

Campion, cold and wet, wearing inadequate polar clothes, stood in front of Scuze's modest house contemplating his next move. He was at the end of his metaphorical tether, his options had all been blown away by the raging storm, either he stayed here or he left Santa Land; that was the choice in front of him. He'd enjoyed Scuze's company at the wedding and they'd had a very good time. But he hadn't seen the needy Trollette since then, his trial consuming all of his time, and was now unsure how he would be received.
Inside the house Scuze was preparing her solitary evening meal, grilled chicken and salad, when there was a loud knock on the front door.
'That's strange,' she thought, 'who'd be mad enough to visit on stormy night like this.'
Tentatively she approached the front door and asked loudly, "Who is it?"
"It is I!" came the reply in an all too familiar voice.
Her initial trepidation changed to annoyance and she replied rudely, "Go away Campion, I'm supposed to ignore you."
"How did you know?" came the reply from the other side of the door.
"None of my friends say 'I' they all say 'Me!" she explained.
"You need to improve your circle of friends or at least enrol them for some grammar lessons," he joked.
"Go away," she insisted and started to move away from the door.
"It's snizzling outside and I'm freezing, please won't you open the door," he whined in his most pathetic voice.
She stood frozen inside, as much he was frozen outside, deliberating what to do. Her common decency prevailed, she turned reluctantly and opened the door, "What do you want?"
The sight of the once proud Campion standing shivering in a wet Chinese gown moved her.
"Well, uhh, I have a little problem," explained Campion, "as you probably know I was found guilty of those silly charges…"
"I thought it was Incredibly Guilty," corrected Scuze.
"That as it may be, but unfortunately one of the consequences is that since I've lost my job I've also lost my apartment; apparently the two go together like a couple," he elaborated and raised a wet naughty eyebrow at the end.
His blatant flirtation irritated Scuze and her previous resolve returned, "So?" she asked indifferently.
"Well, if you recall that fat oaf sentenced me to be nothing, really as if a Sylphid of my special talents could be nothing," he said casually moving forward as he spoke, but when she blocked him he retreated a little.
"Have you quite finished preening? I shouldn't even be talking to you," she said tersely and moved to close the door on him.
"No! No, wait," he said desperately, "the thing of it is, I can't get a room, they all just ignore me as if I'm invisible. I stand and stand. I berate them, shout at them, but nothing!"
A slow smile seeped across her face but she remained silent.
He saw she wasn't going to speak, so he carried on his pitiful tale of woe, "I can't get food or even a drink, they all just pass me by. I thought of stealing but I'd only get into even more bother."
"Boo hoo!" mocked Scuze, unmoved by his plight.
"Oh, don't be like that Scuze, it's dreadful what that man has sentenced me to; being ignored. The only smile I see now is my own in the mirror; and I can tell that's insincere. How awful is that?" he expanded at length.
"It's what you deserve," she snapped callously.
"Oh, dear, dear Scuze. We had a lovely time at the wedding, let's not forget that," he smiled and winked at her blatantly, trying to rekindle the memory of their night together.
"You had a lovely time, I had a hangover," she retorted.
He moved towards her and said in a cute endearing voice, "Couldn't I stay just for a little while, just little old me, I wouldn't be any trouble."
"No! You are trouble!" she yelled stepping back and added "with a big T!" slamming the door shut.
"I believe you mean a capital T," he corrected through the closed door.
Scuze retreated to her kitchen and resumed preparing her meal for one, occasionally looking at the closed door, wondering what had become of Campion, 'perhaps he'd left,' she thought.
But she was mistaken, at that moment Campion delivered his parting plea, "Alright, I suppose you're right, I deserve this."
She paused her meal preparation and moved tentatively half way towards the front door.
Campion's voice grew a little fainter, half drowned out by the howling gales outside, "I only wanted to use my talents to bring happiness to children, I suppose that's wrong these days."
Even fainter now, "I shall wander off into the dark now, crawl into the gutter and freeze to death in this storm. Goodbye Scuze."
She moved up close to the door to hear his parting words, "Goodbye dearest Scuze. Bury me standing up, I don't want to take up too much room in the cemetery."
And then he was gone.  No more long, posh words. No more pleading.
She stood at the door waiting for some further utterances, but there was nothing.
On the other side of the door, only a few feet away, Campion stood with cupped hands around his mouth; still in the pose he had used to make his voice fade away. After a few moments he tip toed behind a trestle of climbing hydrangea and crouched low to hide himself; waiting to see what she would do.
Inside the house Scuze made a dismissive huff and returned to her meal but her heart wasn't in it. The wind howled and roared around the house, rattling the window shutters and shaking the roof tiles, and inside Scuze tried vainly to finish preparing her meal. Suddenly a giant gust blew a pot plant off the porch and it crashed loudly into the front door making Scuze scream.
"Damn" she muttered under her breath as she raced across the room, paused to throw on a thin shawl and hurried out on to the porch, searching frantically for him. The wind blew snow into her face as she vainly searched for the pathetic figure of Campion. She ran down the steps onto the street, the snow covered her slippers and the fierce wind blew hail into her eyes. She turned one way and then the other, desperately searching for him. She turned left but had only taken a few steps before her house gown was completely drenched.
"Campion, come back! Campion come back!" she shouted into the wind.
She walked a few paces, stumbled and fell just as the storm grew even more fierce, battering her frail ill-clad frame. Unable to stand up in the face of the hurricane she turned and began to crawl back up the porch to the safety of her house. She pulled herself up on the handrail and just as she steadied herself, Campion stepped out from behind her hydrangea.
She did a double take, looking at the street and then at him, her frozen mind unable to comprehend where he had come from.
"Nasty weather for an evening walk," he observed casually, surveying her soaked figure.
"I was," gasped Scuze, "looking for you."
"You changed your mind, how generous of you," he said brightly, gleefully clapping his hands together and moving towards the open door, "I shan't be any bother, just a soft bed, a warm fire, good food, plenty of quality drink, a decent laundry pickup and a comprehensive maid service; nothing too onerous. I shall send for my trunks in the morning. This will be too, too delicious."
"I," gasped Scuze, "thought you left!"
He turned to look at her in mock puzzlement and then looked past her at the raging storm, "In this weather? You must be deluded! Come now," he said, marching into her house and clapping his hands, "that cup of skinny Mocha won't make itself."
Scuze steadied herself in the doorway and emitted a low, bestial growl.

* * *