frogs in the rye

It's 10.30 in the evening and there's a knock at the door. I tell my brother I have to eat my takeaway (such is the descent), he answers it. Norma's there. She lives next door. I've never met her before. She's an indeterminate age. There's a frog in her utility room. My brother says that's fine, his brother will sort it out. I go what? We walk out the front door and round to Norma's. Norma's house has newspapers on the floor. From 1978. Possibly. There's things there you don't want to know. Like growth. I'm sent forward to fight the frog. The back door's open. There's a black chair on wooden slats with a magazine sitting on it just outside. There's a washing machine and twelve years worth of unwashed washing. There's no sign of any frog. Norma's sorry to have caused any trouble. She hasn't. I look behind the door and in the sinks, but there might be a million hiding places for an errant frog. We go back next door, frog-free. I finish my MSG rich Chinese (such is the descent).