Eccentricity

I wrote a little something earlier. But I'm not going to post it. I've lost the knack of writing a bit lately. I haven't been writing anything on my stories, and I stopped blogging and tweeting for a while. I'm trying to get back on track, and I've got lots of writing to do for my university work as well. Book reviews, analysis of techniques, short stories, essays, the list goes on. Today in Creative Writing we had to write about the most eccentric person we knew. I had so many to pick from; there are some absolute nutters where I live. There's the woman who steals other people's cats, the man who walks five miles into town everyday barefoot holding empty tesco bags, the mutton dressed as lamb, she's about 70, who wears a bright pink velor tracksuit and a silver sequin beret, but I had to choose my neighbour, she wins hands down. Since I can't really think of much else to write at the moment, I'll post what I wrote earlier up here.

I imagine she's about 80 years old; her face looks like it has melted under 80 years of sun. Black eyeliner, black hair, black shoes, tights, skirt, top, black coat, everything is black in the life of the ironically named Mrs White, who lives a few doors down from me. Late at night, it ought to be quiet in our quaint little town surrounded by countryside, but there's always the background murmur of her car, chugging away, parked, stationary in front of her house. 'It's good for the engine', she explains to anybody who asks. I can't help but smirk since I know that somebody told her that as a joke 30 odd years ago. Her husband is about half her height, grey, the same monotone appearance but washed out a little. He's always on parking duty, making sure that their second car is always on the road too, so that nobody can block them in. I'm not sure what they do in that house, but I can't believe it's much as her head is always positioned between the curtains, watching like a bird of prey as anyone passes by, giving the constantly running car a fair number of odd glances.