He established himself in the plumpest armchair, talking about his lost umbrella and making everything damp. We put him in the purple bedroom, this being the largest, but he complained so much we moved him to the primrose; mauve gave him migraines, he said.
Three weeks he stayed, insisting on toast racks and quite ruining the Sudoku with stray sixes and sevens. We tried various phrases to hasten his departure, but even the bluntest words he ignored – until one morning Father rather snapped and murdered him with a kitchen knife.
Which, I’m glad to say, wasn’t blunt in the slightest.