MR. NOBODY

Every busy household, organisation or occasional friendly gathering have that invisible presence with movements, sound or untraceable presence which can unexpectedly change the dynamics of things, from one location to the other where your belongings appear or disappear at random or you might notice somebody's foot prints on the floor or stains on the wall, you name it. When events like this happen it reminds me of a poem titled “Mr. Nobody”.

It can resonate with a parent trying to be a home detective when asking the kids at home "Who ate all the apple pie?" The instant response from all the kids might be an outright "Not me" so WHO? Who actually ate the huge Apple pie reserved for tea tonight? Well its left for the parent to find out and that can take a lot of questioning and a little investigating to unfold this mysterious so-called ghost while staring at those sweet little eyes and lips covers with crumbs.

Who scattered my unlocked room with lots of papers, smashed my lipstick and spilled my lotion on the carpet without cleaning it up? Though none of my housemates owned up to the mess I know somebody was definitely in my room. I call this unknown presence who does all these mischievous deeds - typically the act of a child but sometimes could be an adult too "The Anonymous Mr. Nobody". Although the gender is uncertain but what is apparent is this fellow does not want to be named or seen on the act. However, these actions can be humorous or it could come as a surprise when caught on a CCTV camera. If you have a Mr. Nobody experience, please share. I would love to hear about it, as I seem to have lost my chocolates at home to Mr. Nobody.

Enjoy

Mr. Nobody

I know a funny little man,

As quiet as a mouse,

Who does the mischief that is done

In everybody’s house!

There’s no one ever sees his face,

And yet we all agree

That every plate we break was cracked

By Mr. Nobody.

‘Tis he who always tears out books,

Who leaves the door ajar,

He pulls the buttons from our shirts,

And scatters pins afar;

That squeaking door will always squeak,

For prithee, don’t you see,

We leave the oiling to be done

By Mr. Nobody.

He puts damp wood upon the fire,

That kettles cannot boil;

His are the feet that bring in mud,

And all the carpets soil.

The papers always are mislaid,

Who had them last but he?

There’s not one tosses them about

But Mr. Nobody.

The finger marks upon the door

By none of us are made;

We never leave the blinds unclosed,

To let the curtains fade.

The ink we never spill; the boots

That lying round you see

Are not our boots, – they all belong

To Mr. Nobody.