As you can see from this photo, as Superstar Dogs reached its climax, both dogs began barking at fever pitch. I couldn't understand what was wrong (Mr P tends to start licking the tv screen at the very sight of John Barrowman, as indeed do I). As Brenda jumped up on the table and began growling, my blood froze. Outside in the garden, staring hungrily in through the window was a ghastly spectre dressed in her usual slovenly attire of a 1980s Wonderwoman outfit.... it was, of course, Belladonna, my dangerously psychotic, Russian ex-maid, who, since her expulsion from my employ, has been living rough behind the bins on the village green.
I reached for an Uzi sawn-off shotgun (which I keep stashed in my bedsit cabinet, in case of opportunistic burglaries or visits from the Jehovah's Witnesses) and chased Belladonna out of the grounds back to where she was sleeping rough, firing a few rounds randomly into the air. I discovered that the once-respectable village green has been turned into a rubbish tip. Just look at the state of the place:
*click to enlarge*: Belladonna is living in a yellow skip, and around it, a disgusting paraphernalia of half-eaten pizza, empty beer cans, a gargantuan pile of Quality Street wrappers (I read on Belladonna's previous employment report she once tried to commit suicide by consuming three tins of Quality Street in one sitting), as well as a filthy, stained mattress, five inflatable sex dolls, four tubes of KY jelly and Vaseline, three dildoes (one was 20 inches in length and double-pronged) and a foot-pump.
To my horror, Belladonna was also holding this handwritten sign, visible to all passing traffic.
In a terrible flap, I screamed at the top of my voice, ran home, poured myself a triple strength gin-n-tonic, gobbled down some Xanax, Prozac, Lithium and Valium, snorted some Poppers, and then grabbed and began necking a bottle of whiskey. My social standing amongst the villagers was now in tatters, thanks to Belladonna. What was I to do?