The furniture is still here.

The London Dungeon. A type of dungeon. Image via Wikipedia

In fact, two delivery men arrived the other day to ask for it back. We know it's been wrongly delivered, they said, so can we have it back? They were straight to the point, and I admired that. I still locked them in my new, flat-pack dungeon though.

 The police came yesterday. They said they already had to ask about some furniture, and that also, two men from a delivery company had gone missing and had last been seen approaching my address, had I seen them? I said yes, they're in the dungeon. When the police went to look, I locked them in as well.

 The dungeon is only made of balsa wood and glue, so I doubt I can hold them for very long...

 Actually, I haven't fed them yet. They'll probably eat their way out. Don't know about the delivery men though, didn't seem to speak much English. I'm not sure if they even know they've been taken prisoner. They keep smiling, maybe they think it's some sort of kinky dungeon.

 The mistake I probably made was to hire those scantily-clad women to serve them drinks.

There was a truck outside. I could see it...

Image via WikipediaIt had just pulled up outside my house, all big and truck-like. A large, moustached man in a cap was seated in the driver's seat, and as I watched, he began to eat a banana in a most un-erotic fashion. After a few minutes, he finished and discarded the skin on the pavement to cause hilarity and mayhem at a later date. Stepping out of the truck with a daintiness unusual for a man of his girth, he opened the back and began to remove boxes.

 I began to fill with dread. Max, safely tucked up in bed in his own house, returned to youth - was this his doing? Steeling myself, I waited for man and box to reach the door.

But no! The man, moustache quivering in the wind, began to take out more boxes, stacking them by the van. In total, he unloaded around 30. Then, back bent with strain, he began the slow task of moving them to my doorstep. After a long, long period of time, he finished this task and fetched a clipboard from the front of the van. Looking at it casually, he approached the house. Then, suddenly, he stopped and stared in disbelief. His eyes went from the clipboard, to the flashing neon sign with my address on it, back to clipboard.
 He began to sweat. His moustache trembled. But he pulled himself up, rolling back his sleeves and fixing his face into steely determination. He ran the doorbell.

 "Sign here, Ms. Gunderson" He barked quickly.
I looked at the name and address on the clipboard. Miss Ann Gunderson, that wasn't me. I scanned down the address, taking particular interest in the fact Ms. Gunderson's home was actually a castle, and that it was in Sweden.
 "That's not me. I'm sorry, these aren't for me."
He looked at me. Indignantly.
 "I recons they are, Miss! I recons you'll be signing there, and I shall unpack and assemble these pieces in your bood-wair, as requested, Miss!"
 "I'm terribly sorry, but I really don't want these parcels. I haven't ordered them, they belong to someone else." Who is in Sweden. "I can't in good conscience take them."
 "Then perhaps, Miss, I shall telephone the constabulary. They might be taking of a dim view of such goings-on as these."
 "Fine." I replied. "I'll wait indoors."

I returned and watched through the window as the delivery driver paid a passing boy to deliver a letter to the local police station. After a few minutes, a police car arrived, and two officers got out. I watched as they listened and the man explained. I watched, with interest, their faces as the story - accompanied by hand-gestures - went on. After a few more minutes, he began to prod one of the policemen. After a few more minutes, he prodded too hard.
 I watched as they bundled him into the back of the police car and drove off. The boxes were still outside, blocking my view. As time passed, I realised they were blocking out the sun as well.
 Well, it looks like I won't be photosynthesizing tonight.