Sorry, Pauline

“No, no, no. Mine, mine, mine!” Harry screeched in the high-pitched voice of a young girl. Then in a deep, masculine voice, “what’s in the box?!”

The change of tone always gave me the heebie-jeebies. Which I suppose is wrong. Maybe I should stop admitting it. Lord knows, I can’t exactly make myself stop feeling it, can I?

The whirring of that godforsaken drone had set off another of Harry’s episodes - the absolute last thing I needed today! Now you probably think I’m an incredibly selfish and rotten person. I’m not, I’m a carer, so surely I can’t be too bad. Although you do hear the stories, don’t you? About the bad ones. Not feeding those poor old ladies, leaving the dear old men to sit in their own shit for hours. Ghastly people! That’s absolutely not me - I can assure you! 

But I was mad at Harry.

He suffers from dissociative personality disorder, or as many call it, multiple personality disorder. But the latter, that’s outdated now - just so you know. I guess if you did call it that though, most folks would have a good idea of what you’re talking about. Maybe even a better idea than if you used the new term. Like when we say ‘hang up' the phone. Kids are still using that one like they know what it actually means - ha! But you get my drift, I’m sure. 

Actually, come to think of it, is there a new term for hanging up?

 Don’t worry, I’ll Google it later.

Anyway, let us get back to the story. So Harry was having an episode, shouting this and that in the various voices of his alters (that’s what he calls his different identities). The package had just been dropped off by the flying drone. Actually, did I mention that part? No. Oh, so yes, the drone brought a package to the front door, just plonked it there and flew away to heaven knows where, whilst I was occupied doing… You know what, I can’t remember! It mustn’t have been important. No one knocked but they didn’t need to with the racket it made! It sure got Harry’s attention by any means!

So, of course, when I got back, I went to the door to bring the box inside. Harry’s only 14, but he’s a big lad for his age, and when he came running at me trying to take the box, well… I’m not as young as I used to be and didn’t think I could put up much of a fight. So Harry’s running away with the box and I’m chasing him around. By this point, he’s switched back to his little girl alter and is skipping around the living room, singing nursery rhymes. 

I did get a good look at that box, though, in the few seconds I held it. And the reason I wanted it back... it had my name on it!

Now, I’m always over at Harry’s house at this time of day, so whoever sent this package must have been paying attention. I look after him every day, whilst his mum is at work, you see. Nice lady, Pauline. Always happy to have a chat about whatever's going on in my life. Not like some of the other families I’ve worked for, rambling on and on about their children - honestly some people!

So, I go into the living room and ask Harry, politely, to give the box back. If he was still the older gent I might have had a chance, but this little girl, well, I don’t know how else to say it, but…she was a cow! No reasoning with her at all! Harry, as I predicted, says no in his spiteful little voice, sticking his big boyish tongue out as he did. 

It left me no choice really, did it? I do hope you see it that way.

I took some chocolate out of one of the kitchen cupboards and placed it in the bathroom. On the counter, of course, nowhere near the toilet! As I said before, I’m no monster. 

“Harry, I’ve put some chocolate in the bathroom for you. Why don’t you go find it?” I said in a sing-song voice I knew she’d like. And just like that, she skipped off into the bathroom. I moved quick as a flash and shut the door behind her. Such a cunning plan! I bet you’re quite impressed with me, ey?

Inevitably, she starts screaming for me to let her out and I very calmly tell her that she can only come out if she agrees to give me the box back. By this point, I’d locked the door from the outside. You see, the older alter has some real serious suicidal tendencies, so, being the clever woman she is, Pauline took the locks off the inside so she could always get in if he was in trouble. God knows why she then added locks to the outside, but it’s not for me to judge. Each to their own I say!

Harry is still refusing to send the box out and it’s right then I realise! He doesn’t have the box at all! She dropped it before she ran inside! So I walked over to the box and picked it up. I did debate giving it a little shake before opening it, but what if it was valuable? Or dangerous? It was definitely light!

The deep voice now came booming from within the locked bathroom. Threatening to break every bone in my body and suck out the marrow, or some such nonsense.

Anyway, I’m about to open this box. I carefully cut the tape and fold the cardboard flaps back to reveal a blinking note of all things! A single page of crisp white paper!

It read: 

Haha! Got you, you stupid old bitch! 


And you will not believe this, but it’s signed: Pauline!

Right after me telling you how nice she was, honestly, you couldn’t write it!

At this point, I did think about letting Harry out, since the mystery was solved. He was getting quite upset, and do you recall I mentioned earlier some suicidal tendencies? But it was nice to try and forget about him for a moment. Plus, a small teeny-weeny part of me wanted to punish him, as a way of making Pauline suffer for that box prank! She, of all people, should have known better!

With that whole mess behind me, I took the time to enjoy a lovely cup of tea - Yorkshire Tea, my absolute favourite! Then I popped out to the shops and purchased all the stuff Pauline will need to make dinner. I did forget the bloody milk, though! It’s always the milk, isn’t it? I’d just have to get it tomorrow. 

When I got back to the house, it was lovely and quiet.

Peaceful.

Although it did sadden me somewhat to find Harry unconscious in the bathtub. I think he may have been dead, you know, with all the blood and everything.

I’ve just checked the time.

Pauline will be back any minute, she always takes over around now, and I can feel her lingering in the back of our mind. Poor woman, forever cleaning up my messes!

Sorry Pauline, or Charles, or Edith, or whichever one of us you are when you find him!

Oh, one last thing before I go! 

I’ve just Googled it, and no, there is no new term for hanging up. They’ve just added 'ending a phone conversation’ into the dictionary as a second definition! Bloody genius!