T is for 20 things....

src="http://www.btinternet.com/~sadru.visram/doorbe1.jpg">

The doorbell rang and I staggered downstairs, still half under the
influence of the weird dream I had been having. The dream was filled
with eyes, eyes watching me avariciously from mirrors, trees, car
headlights, packets of frozen food?. I fumbled for the key and opened
the door a crack. The postman stood outside, impossibly cheery and fit
for 7.15 in the morning. His eyes slid over my sleep-bleared face and
on down to my hastily wrapped torso, from which a pair of pale legs
erupted uninvitingly, toes splayed in naked abandon. I'm sure there was
a smirk there somewhere but he concealed it pretty well.

"Packet for you, Miss Foster. Sorry to disturb you but it wouldn't fit
through the letterbox."

"Fine. No problem. Thanks," I mumbled semi-coherently as I took the
large brown envelope and closed the door on his too bright
demeanour.

I looked at the packet, and a little frisson of excitement jolted me
awake. It was my '20 things' delivery. Surfing away my depression one
day, I'd found this website where you make 20 little things and send
them off and get 20 back from 20 different people. It seemed to be the
ideal self-help therapy for the down period I was experiencing at the
moment. And it had worked, too. I had been forced to think of something
interesting to make, and had spent a happy couple of weeks painting
tiny beach pebbles with mini scenes of palm trees and yachts. I had
(almost) completely forgotten about Andy.

I had sent off my artistic efforts a week ago, and now here was my very
own goody bag of mini delights, or very probably a load of tat, but
what the hell. I made myself a mug of tea, settled myself at the
kitchen table and ripped open the envelope.

Upending the packet on the table, I sorted through the contents. A
couple of poems, one of them really quite dreadful, a seed necklace, a
decorated pencil, a tiny piece of cloth cross-stitched with the word
'Peace', a buttonhole of silk flowers, an amorphous creation in garden
wire?. All pretty useless stuff but somehow quite fun to look through.
I checked over the rest and stopped for a moment at a truly beautiful
little abstract painting of swirls and triangles. I wondered who the
artist was, and if I could get to know him better. Then an oddly shaped
piece of folded yellow cardboard caught my attention, and I picked it
up curiously, nearly dropping it again as my dream materialised in the
form of an Egyptian eye drawn starkly in thick red marker pen at one
end of the shape.

There was a piece of paper wedged in the fold and, as I spread it out
to read, it became clear that the cardboard object was some sort of
origami shape, called, prosaically, a 'Snappy', with the tag line "Give
a little, get a little" imprinted under the name.

As instructed, I pulled the sides apart and then pushed the ends
towards each other, and the Snappy popped into a thick-lipped beak
shape with eyes on the top and tiny drawn 'nostrils' near the tip. This
time I did drop it. It looked altogether too, well, somehow evil,
sitting there with its yellow face and its red-eyed glare, staring
straight at me.

I put out my finger and poked at it, and it rocked gently on the table.
I looked again at the accompanying leaflet, which seemed to have been
produced on a home computer:

"Feed the Snappy and you'll learn

That you'll get something in return.

The more he gives, the more he feeds.

Use him wisely, match your needs."

New Age clap-trap - I never had the patience for this sort of thing. I
screwed up the paper and tossed it into the bin. But I let the Snappy
alone - I didn't feel like touching it somehow.

I got up and put the kettle on again, and put two slices of bread in
the toaster. Breakfast was usually a neglected event, but the talk of
feeding had made me peckish. As I buttered the toast I could feel the
cardboard eyes watching me hungrily?no, of course I couldn't. How
stupid! I turned to face it and then, laughing, broke off a piece of
toast and popped it into the gaping beak.

"There, just see how kind I am to you," I smaned to myself.

I watched the Snappy carefully for any sign of activity, then pulled
myself up short. I couldn't believe I was doing this! Nothing happened,
of course. I turned away with an odd feeling of deflation, leavened by
the unmistakeable sensation of relief. I picked up the abstract picture
that had charmed me and thought again about the artist. I would so like
the chance to tell him, or her, how much I liked their work. I turned
the picture over and there, on the back, was a little gold address
label. Odd that I hadn't noticed it before. "Alan Fisher -Miniaturist"
it announced, along with an address in Reading, a phone number and an
E-mail address. I grinned happily and strolled with it into the front
room, so that I could copy the e-mail address into my PC.

I fired off a message, then returned to the kitchen to clear up. I was
feeling unaccountably hungry again and decided on a cheese toasty. What
was it with me today? At this rate I'd be overflowing my bikini in
Tenerife in two weeks time. My thoughts shadowed as I thought of Andy
again. The holiday was supposed to cement our engagement, but now?. I
shrugged away the gloom determinedly. Forget it. My best friend Sarah
had stepped into the breach, and she and I would have a terrific time
anyway.

I went to collect my mug from the kitchen table and noticed the Snappy
still sitting there, looking as hungry as ever. Which was daft, because
it couldn't be hungry in the first place, could it? I put my fingers
into its beak to clear away the toast but touched only paper. I picked
it up and shook it into my hand, but nothing came out. Please God, let
it not be mice. I HATED mice invading my nest, scuttling verminous
furballs that they were. If only Andy were still here?.

I felt a prick in my finger and realised that I had somehow given
myself a paper cut from a sharp edge on the folded card. As my finger
bled into the paper maw the doorbell rang. Dropping the Snappy onto the
floor in irritation, I stuck my finger in my mouth to suck the blood
and went to open the door.

"Er,hi, Tess," said Andy, nervously. "Can I come in?"

I slammed the door in his face.

Of all the?. The two-timing double-dealing slimeball, how dare he think
he could just stroll up to my door and greet me as though nothing had
happened. I was shaking with sudden anger and felt so queasy that I had
to sit down. The bell was employed again, with rather more insistence.
I tried to get my thoughts under control but my metabolism had decided
to do a static workout without my permission. I put my head in my hands
and breathed jerkily into my lap. My forehead, I noted, was filmed with
sweat. The high-pitched tones of the bell assaulted my ears, audible
even above the thundering of my blood.

"Tess? Tess! Let me in!" Andy insisted from the street.

"Piss off, dog breath, and leave me alone," was my considered
response.

I was shivering uncontrollably, little prickles of gooseflesh rising
all over my body. The doorbell had stopped ringing.

I got up and wandered around the kitchen, my hands mindlessly tidying,
my thoughts haywire. I washed up the dishes, shoved the strewn objects
on the table back into the packet, and wiped the table down. My throat
felt swollen and tight. Trembling, I refilled the kettle at the tap.
Just now, tea seemed to be the only answer. As I was pouring the hot
water into my mug the doorbell rang again and the boiling water slopped
onto my wrist as I jerked in alarm. Despair engulfed me as the pain and
Andy's voice hit at the same time.

"For Christ's sake, Tess! Open the bloody door! I'm not going to
assault you. I just came by to pick up my passport. You've still got it
from booking the holiday insurance?."

My stomach heaved and in a daze I started for the bathroom, but I only
got a couple of steps before I'd doused my Italian floor tiles with the
half-digested contents of my unaccustomed breakfast.

"Piss off and die, wanker!" I yelled, beside myself with misery and
temper.

I staggered across to the basin and ran the cold water tap over my
scalded arm, rinsing my vomit-encrusted mouth with my other hand. As I
rested my elbows on the steel edge of the bowl and let my head droop
forward I was dimly aware of a thump and a screech of tyres outside in
the street. It sounded like another prang - a regular occurrence in our
crowded road with its obscuring parked cars. I couldn't be bothered to
look.

Sighing, I took my still stinging hand from the basin and opened the
cupboard beneath to get the bucket that was stored there. I slugged in
some disinfectant, topped it up with the running water, then turned in
resignation to clear up the mess. At least I'd have an excuse to dump
that Snappy thing, I thought with a glimmer of relief. It was sitting
besplattered in the middle of the puddle of sick, its open beak oddly
clear of any disgusting contents, its stare haughtily transcending the
unsavoury environment.

I could almost hear its stomach rumbling.