11th January. The House of Sadness.

Sliding sideways off the main road on the compacted slush the 'House of Sadness' swung into view, once again.

And there, still leaning against the chimney stack, glinting in the winter sun was thirty feet of heavy weight aluminium extension ladders.

No news had indeed been good news.

"We were a bit worried during the night though" quoted Mrs C, "Quite a lot of rattling."

If the ladders had blown over and gone through the windscreen of the local bus it would have only been further confirmation of the jinxed nature of the address.

Local rumour has it that relationships seem to run foul of some dark force within.

"He used to tie his wife to the bed" I heard say, of some previous occupants.

Not in some mutually agreed transaction of pain and pleasure, more as one would tie up a Jack Russell whose incessant yapping began to get on one's nerves.