The White House, Hartburn, had been returned to residential use. I owned the upstairs flat, and someone else the ground floor. From their online descriptions, each property looked just like an ordinary Airbnb rental: people came and went, and the owners – myself included – could sometimes be seen sitting in the grounds enjoying the sunshine.
In reality, my downstairs neighbours were using their property as storage for illegal immigrants. Their ‘stock’ came from Japan. It comprised frightened young women, all extremely beautiful with long dark hair, clear pale skin, and ice-blue eyes.
I took it upon myself to rescue them. However, first of all, I had to get the obnoxious teenage friends of my nephew PMcC out of my own property. It seemed that this was a generation that thought that they could turn up at anyone’s house and stay there for as long as they wanted, no questions asked.
I fought with a French woman in my quest to release the hostages. One of her battle strategies was to hide my shoes so that I wouldn’t be able to get out of the building. However, I found a pair of brand-new designer loafers from an up-market Paris boutique in an unopened shoebox. They fitted me perfectly. So I slipped them on, rushed off on my mission, making the bedroom of the sports reporter the first place to look for hidden girls.
Dreamaticus 