Mrs Angry used to live in a road known by politically incorrect locals as 'Loopy Lane' - how did that happen, you are wondering? One of the interesting residents of this street, for example, was Ron the Gnome Man, who lived with more than five hundred garden gnomes, inside and outside his house: gnomes in the garden, bedroom, bathroom, and in the airing cupboard, which he kept as a hospital ward for sick gnomes, naturally. He habitually dressed as a gnome, in red trousers, waistcoat, pointy hat, and very often you would look out of the window to find yet another film company from Channel Four making a documentary about him. It all started, apparently, when his wife left him. I dare say she had her reasons.
At the other end of the road lived a poor old woman, Agnes, who was even more eccentric, and used to wander the roads of Finchley banging a child's tin drum, hung on a piece of string around her neck, or pushing a ragged old stuffed dog on wheels. At night you would sometimes wake up to hear her outside, walking up and down, commenting on all the occupants of the houses in a Welsh stage whisper, like a mad character in the chorus of a Greek tragedy: or maybe a character in Under Milk Wood. 'And her at no 25 - she's no better than she should be', was her observation on Mrs Angry, I seem to recall. Unfortunately Agnes developed a more and more extreme persecution complex (can you see where I'm going with this yet?) and retreated to her house, after nailing a yellow rubber glove to the gate, boarding up her windows, and sticking a large notice in the front window, with the letters: FBI. It was some sort of talisman, I suppose - a charm to keep the evil eye away.
In the end they took her away somewhere. Who took her, actually? I'm not sure. But I think they may be coming for Mrs Angry soon. Because Mrs Angry is developing an extreme persecution complex, you know.Why so, you may be wondering?
Mmm: well let's see: weeks of emails to Labour councillors disappearing, or diverted elsewhere ... not Tory ones: Mrs Angry, should she so wish, can email a Tory councillor of her choice, probably not Brian Coleman, mind you, and receive a warm and welcoming reply. She has tested this out, with a kind Tory councillor - yes, she managed to find one!
Yesterday it transpired that fellow blogger Mr Roger Tichborne is also unable to communicate with Labour councillors. And then Mrs Angry appears to have had someone doing something else very nasty to her pc, or trying to. This unknown person went to visit someone else, then, and did something very bad there, luckily unsuccessfully in the end. Oh, and another resident has now reported two incidences of naughty things happening to her, too, after complaints about a certain matter to a certain broken London Borough.
Isn't that odd, ladies and gentlemen? It's not enough that we have had to discover in the last couple of weeks that we were secretly filmed by Barnet employees at a council meeting, hear that denied, and then learn that council officers have destroyed the footage without bothering to inform us: now some of us are also experiencing the added outrage of someone out there, no doubt completely unconnected with the council's actions, apparently messing with us in cyber space. Why? The only link is that we are all bloggers or residents recently vocal about certain matters. I should stress that we do not at this stage know why these things are happening, or genuinely have any real idea who may be doing this, but we intend to find out, and this matter has been reported to the appropriate authorities.
Is there any other borough in this country where such things happen? We really are blessed, aren't we, citizens, to live here in Broken Barnet, in the heartland of Conservative values, where liberty, and truth, and honesty, and mutual respect underpin every aspect of our daily lives?
Hold on: there appears to be a doctor standing on my doorstep - with an emergency ambulance and a couple of hefty looking men in, oh, white suits? Diversification is a good idea for struggling businesses, I hear. Where are we going? Help: call the FBI. Or maybe the FBU.