Alien in Marigolds

Alien in Marigolds

“Oh great.  Now I’m seeing things.  Where’s my phone?”  Alexa turned her back on the Alien standing next to the cooker, pulled off her yellow washing up gloves and reached for her smartphone.  She started scrolling through her contacts.

The Alien’s antennae contracted.  This was not what normally happened.

“Hi… not that fine actually.  I’m seeing things.   Yup.   There’s an alien in the kitchen.  Of course there bloody well isn’t.  Don’t blame me!  I was up five times last night with Ella and Daniel while you were snoring away.   I’m on the edge Peter, I’m that close to a nervous breakdown.  For God’s sake, I’m seeing aliens in the kitchen.  Just one actually.  Well he’s just standing there at the moment.  He’s got sort of a big head and black eyes – you know, an alien.”

Realising he’d been standing dumbstruck for some time, the Alien decided it was time to assert himself.  He pulled himself up to his full height, hovered a bit and swelled his cranium, which was a dead cert for freaking out the punters – even the ones with camera phones.  He started floating ominously towards Alexa.

Alexa, like a policeman in traffic, put her hand up to stop him.  “I need a break.   You need to come home and take the kids out while I catch up on some sleep.  I can’t look after them if I’m seeing things.  What if I do them some damage? I don’t care.  Get home now.” She stabbed the phone with her forefinger to hang up, and slammed the phone onto the counter.  “Tosser.”

The Alien stared at Alexa with wide black eyes.  “Sorry, not you, him.  Well, at least I’ve got someone to talk to while I finish the washing up. “  She went to put the gloves on, but then turned and eyeballed him.  “Actually, as long as you’re here, you may as well do the washing up.  Come on, over here.  Now.   Come on I haven’t got all day.  Put these on. “  She slapped a pair of soapy marigolds onto the counter and indicated for the Alien to put them on.

“I can’t do your washing up!  I’m a Level 3 Probe.”
“Well I’m a barrister.  The kids don’t care what qualifications you have. They need clean bottles. Come on, chop chop.”

The Alien opened his mouth to make further protest, but the glint in her eye and the slow, emphatic way that she said “chop chop” made him stall.  He picked up the washing up gloves.

“They don’t really fit.”

“No whining.  If you don’t like them, don’t wear them”

An hour and a half later, having finished the washing up, and the vacuuming, and done a few loads of washing, and emptied the bins and chipped yesterday’s cereal off the highchair with his laser, and put a rather delighted Ella to bed, the Alien, exhausted, made his excuses. He left the house with a vague feeling that he should call his mum, and that it was possibly time for a change in career – probing wasn’t what it used to be.


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