The idea is that you get home from work, take off your shoes, grab a beer from the fridge, turn on the TV, sit down, and relax for half an hour.
What you do not want is to come home from work, walk in the door and find all your furniture has been tossed about. Neither do you want to hear swearing and clattering and banging coming from further in the apartment, apparently in the kitchen.
Now for some people this might be considered normal. They have a wife who is subject to extreme PMS, or a girlfriend who is just subject to extremes, but this doesn't apply to me. Or not right now, anyway. I don't have a wife and am currently between girlfriends, the last having departed amicably, but with tears, as she forced herself to leave me for a better paying job interstate.
If I had a burglar, then she seemed to be a significantly inept burglar. I say she because the voice I could hear calling down curses and damnation upon someone, presumably me, was female. Not knowing who I might have offended I naturally went to investigate.
I reached the kitchen and a young lady (I use the word lady, advisably) was there, talking to herself (I assume cursing counts as talking) and trashing the kitchen.
The kitchen and the young lady were quite a contrast. She was neat, sweet and petite. A redhead (why wasn't I surprised) clad in a very nice lacy blouse and a very becoming short skirt which left surprisingly long legs on display. Very shapely legs they were, too. And the lacy frills on her blouse did not conceal the fact that she had a lot to conceal.
The kitchen, on the other hand, was a mess. Food was scattered everywhere. Dry foods were just scattered around. Liquids had been poured in the resultant mess. Fortunately, from what I could see, my beer was as yet unbroached, the cans just lying scattered around in the mess. Neither had she yet got around to hurling china and glassware around, currently being engaged in dumping pots and pans and other utensils into the growing mess.
Not liking to interrupt someone who was so hard at work I just leaned against the doorway, waiting to be noticed. It didn't take all that long. She must have sensed that someone was watching her and she looked up.
"Who the hell are you," she snarled at me, "and what are you doing here?"
Not quite the reception I'd been expecting.
"I'm James Denton," I said affably. "You can call me Jim. Not Jimmy. I find that rather belittling. More to the point, who are you? I won't ask what you're doing here as the answer is rather obvious."
"Well, Jimmy, I'm Natasha. You can tell Charlie, when he gets home, that I dropped in to see him. I think he'll get the message."
"The message being that you're displeased. Ah, by Charlie, I take it you're referring to Charles Denton?"
"Well I'm sure not referring to Charlie Sheen," she snapped.
"I see. The problem I have here is that I don't know a Charles Denton. Or a Charlie Denton, either. As a matter of fact, I can't think of any of my friends who go by the name of Charles. As the owner and occupier of this apartment I find I'm very interested if some person unknown had been using my apartment to entertain his lover."
"He is not my lover and he never will be," came the very fast reply, the things that mattered to her foremost in her mind. Then the rest of the message sank in.
"Your apartment? And you don't know Charlie?"
I inclined my head in acknowledgement.
"So, when did he bring you here, for whatever reason it might have been?"
"Ah, he didn't," she said, sounding worried, as she damn well ought to be. "We were driving past and he pointed out this building and said that was where he lived. I saw the name Denton on the board and came up."
"Which begs the question of how you got into the apartment."
"Um, the doorman let me in. I smiled at him a lot and explained it was going to be a very special surprise for you and to not let you know I was here."
We have a doorman to keep out intruders. Not to escort them into out apartments. I would have a few words to say to a certain doorman.
"So you're mad at someone named Charles, whose last name may, or may not, be Denton, and who may, or may not, live in this building? Have I got that right?"
She nodded.
"And as a result of this my apartment has been trashed. What did he do? All this angst and you say he's not your lover?"
"We've been going steady and he's been doing his damndest to get me into bed. Then I found he's two timing me. His girl-friend came around to warn me off, as though I was some kind of vamp. He's been chasing me, not the other way round, and then he puts me in that sort of position."
"Calm down," I said. She was looking at a fruit-bowl with malicious intent and I liked that bowl.
"Why didn't you just ring him and leave a message?" I asked, curious.
"Not personal enough," she said, glaring at me.
"But a lot easier to deliver," I pointed out.
I turned and surveyed the wreckage and then looked at her. She looked around the kitchen, looking quite pleased with herself. Then I saw the full understanding dawning on her.
"Um, this is your place, not Charlie's."
I nodded.
"Ah, I'm, um, sorry about this. I suppose you'll want me to clean up."
"You would suppose right. Unfortunately for you, I'm very upset over this. So I'm going to insist on a little retribution. After you clean up I'm going to put you across my knee and paddle your pretty little backside. Just as a reminder to you to not lose your temper. If you had kept a little self-control you'd have found out that this was the wrong apartment. You need to learn a little self-discipline. A spanking will encourage you to learn it."
"The hell you are," she said, fire in her eyes. "You can have me arrested. No way are you spanking me."
"There you go, reacting instead of thinking. Do you realise the charges you face? Fraud, from when you told the doorman you were a friend of mine, illegal entry, vandalism, home invasion, theft. You'll be surprised at what a long list of crimes you've committed. We're not talking slap on the wrist. We're talking time behind bars, lawyer costs, compensation cost, notoriety, you may even get some TV time, probably in one of the funny spots. You know, frustrated lover attacks wrong man."
"You're joking. You said theft. I didn't steal anything."
