"She could chill the knickers off a cheddar sandwich."

Those were the first words Albert ever said to me. To someone like me, innocent and shy at the time, such a phrase raised my eyebrows. Now, after such a long time of knowing the old man, and hearing much worse from him, I'm far less innocent and my shyness has been replaced by forced confidence.

It's not really forced. It's more of a façade I've grown into. Albert latched onto me, dragging me out of my self-made shell as if shucking an oyster. Initially, I resisted. My shell was comfortable and built to withstand all the winds life could throw at me, as if I were a palm tree open to the elements. Or, with Albert's odd turn of phrase, open to the elephants.

Thinking back, though I agreed with the essence of the comment about his wife, Frosty Knickers, I never asked what the cold and a cheese sandwich had to do with each other. Now, I'll never get the chance. I don't think the two were related, honestly. He just liked to connect the unconnectable. The meaning was always portrayed, even if the language was often perplexing.

And, old Frosty Knickers was the reason Albert is no longer with us.

Us, meaning the rest of the world. Not me, meaning... well... me. He's still with me, of course. Keeping with the shellfish theme, he's attached to me like a limpet to a ripe banana.

Yeah, I'll leave the randomness to him. I don't think I've quite got the knack.

So.

Frosty Knickers was Carol. The meat to his potatoes. Oh, I said I'd leave it. You know what I mean, though. His other half. His soul mate, in respect of the fact she seemed to take pleasure in sucking his soul dry. Are souls wet? Hmmm...

I don't know how they came to be together. Whereas he was warm, funny and slightly eccentric, she was cold, bitter and spiteful. Carol was aptly named as, if she were a season, it would be winter. No one, however, would sing any songs about her. Dirges, perhaps, as devoid of life as her constant mood. I once told Albert she had a resting bitch face. He disagreed. He said it never rested.

Once, after a particularly atrocious attack on his complete inability to do or be anything useful, carried out publicly in a busy supermarket, I asked why he was still with her. He shrugged and told me:

"She calms my beans."

I nodded as if I understood. Even if I had got the gist, I wouldn't have actually understood. There was nothing calming about her. Nothing kind. Nothing welcoming. Nothing resembling decent.

Since she killed him with a handheld food mixer, whisking his face like a... nope, not going to go there... for making her morning cup of tea strong enough, his beans are positively microwaved. She is doing life in the cooler, and he is haunting my living room. I suppose it's because I gave him the time of day, when she made his days endless. He gets my attention every so often by playing with the lights, and makes me wave to get him to turn them back on. It's a pain, but I'd miss it him if he wasn't there.

I suppose he's the kangaroo to my kipper, now.