The following story might sem a bit odd, but it is actually true. In the place where we used to live, I had this friend, but her name was not Lubby. E erything in this story is true!
“This way to the electrocution.”
These were the words that met Libby as she entered the house one Autumn afternoon. On the wall in front of her were a series of arrows, pointing the way to “The Electrocution.”
Libby was known to be eccentric. But this beat anything that she had ever done.
It wasn’t that she wasn’t a pleasant enough person, though with her jet black hair that looked like something from the twenties, and her lipstick and rouge, she did look rather odd. She always had this odd smile on her face. Almost like it had been painted on. It seemed firmly fixed.
I once had the pleasure of going to the theatre with her. We had arranged to meet in the Queens Bar of the rather upbeat hotel over the road from the theatre. I arrived to find her sitting at a table looking like Lady Muck, surrounded by all kinds of food and condiments. It was obvious that she had given the waiter a hard time. There she was, facing me as I got to the glass door of the Bar, still managing to keep the smile on her face even whilst eating. I felt panic rising within me. The show was soon to begin, and she was only halfway through her meal. But that was Libby. Late for everything. She had no sense of time. And neither did she have any sense of place. Especially in airports. She had once recounted to me a tale of having got on the wrong plane.
“How did she manage to do THAT?” I thought. I was never to find out, but she had got in the wrong queue, and somehow or other had managed to get aboard the plane for Dubais when she only had a ticket for Amesterdam. The mistake was discovered only when the plane was in the air. According to Libby, she had flown all the way to Dubais, only to be put on a plane and flown right back to Amsterdam.
Libby had once suffered very badly from depression, and she put a notice in her window saying,
“ALL WHO SUFFER FROM DEPRESSION WELCOME HERE. PLEASE COME IN.’
And they did! Loads of them! “It was the happiest time of my life,” Libby told me.
So really, it should not have been any surprise to her when she found the notices on the wall as she entered the house.
She followed the arrows diligently, until she found herself in the back room of the hoyse. There, she found her husband on the FLOOR, wired up to the television set, which was live. In fact, he was a television repair man. But this was no repair. This was a deliberate ending of his life.
Libby was telling me all about it the day I took her to visit his grave.
“I didn’t get any Insurance money,” she said. “He hadn’t insured himself because he wasn’t expecting to die.”