These days he was never too sure where his wife was or what she got up to when she wasn't with him. Their marriage had been a “good one” and for ten years they had enjoyed each other. Their relationship hadn't been passionate although in the beginning there was lust. Sex on the freezer had been quite hot and the dinning room table had seen some decidedly intimate and different culinary episodes. But that was back then. Now a days it was a Sunday morning squeeze if the dogs would allow it or the occasional grapple in bed when the lights went out if he hadn't drunk too much and she didn't have a headache. Admittedly she would have liked children but he wasn't so bothered by the lack of them and besides they did have the Labradors.
Recently she had joined a health spa which in itself wasn't a bad thing as it kept her away from him when he wanted time to himself. Time to himself however got him thinking about why she had wanted to join a gym. The thought grew and like unchecked ivy spread around the trunk of his thoughts, climbed up the bark of his emotions and threatened to strangle the fruit of his reason. That terrible suspicion brewed up by jealousy began to get at him.
“Oh I won't be long darling.” She sang to him as she almost skipped out of the front door. “See you later,” she called as the thing slammed shut cutting off her cheerfulness and trapping his suspicion.
He wasn't happy. He'd been toying with the idea of following her but knew that she'd be on the look out if she was up to no good and besides the Rang Rover Sport with his personal number plate was a bit of a give away.
He grabbed for the Yellow Pages and looked up detective. He found detective agencies after design consultants and before dieting and weight control. There were several listed most featuring logos with either drawings of a magnifying glass or a close up of the human eye. One even had the picture of a blood hound and most were endorsed by something called the Association of British Investigators. He chose one of these and dialled the number, straight away hanging up when he heard a female voice answer. He was being ridiculous and he had no reason at all to suspect his wife of anything.
“Good god man,” he said to himself. “You're becoming paranoid. She's just out getting fit and that's all there is to it.”
If absence makes the heart grow fonder then the husband didn't have a heart. His wife's increased time away was in direct proportion to his increased concern and the relationship was beginning to suffer.
“I'm surprised you haven't waisted away completely with all that exercise you're doing.” It was the combustible comment like the scraping of a Swan Vesta which lit that particular fire.
“Don't be so bloody silly. If you took the time to do some exercise yourself you'd probably be less bolshy and a bloody site fitter.”
“There's nothing wrong with my body.”
“That's a matter of opinion.”
“Oh yes. Whose?”
“Mine. For a man of your age you are getting too fat.”
“I'm perfect for my height.”
“Not for mine.”
“What?”
“Nothing. It doesn't matter.”
“It bloody well does.”
“It's just that I'm keen to keep fit and you don't seem to care any more. You're just letting yourself go to seed and....”
“And you want to run about in your bloody skin tight leotard with your personal trainer ogling at your tits...”
“Don't be silly. It's not like that at all....”
The row went on like that until she went off to bed leaving him to Jeremy Paxman.
The next day she went out after a light breakfast and didn't come back until four in the afternoon.
“Good session?” he asked on her return in a way that implied more than a work out on a treadmill.
“Yes thank you,” she replied as though she'd been sitting innocently astride a rowing machine.
Her morning departures and evening arrivals continued and he became as wound up as the grandfather clock that stood in the hall. He called another detective agency listed in the Yellow phone book and arranged a meeting with them that day.
“You can come here,” he said undeterred by the response of , “OK sir. How do we find you?”
The interview was pretty straight forward and the fresh faced private investigator who looked as though he'd come straight from college took notes and a recent photograph of the wife as she appeared in her bikini on a beach in Barbados.
“You'll know her when you see her,” said the husband rather obviously and the private investigator agreed that he would.
After a week there was nothing to report. The private investigator returned to visit the husband and delivered his findings which basically were that there was nothing to report.
“She just spends all the time at that bloody gym?”
“Yes.”
“And there's no hanky panky with anyone there?”
“Absolutely none at all. I can confirm from someone on the inside and from at least two other reliable sources that your wife spends her time working out in the gym, using the pool and the spa, that is the sauna and steam rooms and twice in the week she had a massage, again kosher, and on three occasions went to the restaurant for the healthy option luncheon. It's all here. Written down by the hour” The fresh faced private investigator handed over a brown A4 envelope and looked very pleased with himself.
“So she's not up to anything at all?”
“No. Nothing out of the ordinary. She's obviously very keen on keeping fit and I'd say you're a very lucky man.”
The private investigator was given a cheque for his company's services and his opinion about his client's luck was noted but not agreed with.
Despite the written evidence the husband wasn't convinced. His wife had the sort of spring in her step that reminded him of their early days together. He knew that she was playing away but couldn't prove anything. So another phone call produced another private detective who was briefed on the job of wife watching.
“Make sure you keep an eye on her in that gym because I know she's up to no good.”
The newly commissioned private detective was an ex-army type and he was determined to apply his military precision and years of training to the job in hand. His ex-Sargent Major's moustache stiffened in anticipation of the new task.
His report too confirmed that nothing was going on.
“At ten hundred hours the quarry was seen entering the Hotel Spa reception area. At ten-o- three, having signed in, the quarry received a white towel, a standard spa issue white towelling dressing gown and a white pair of towelling flip flops and proceeded to the ladies dressing rooms. At ten seventeen the quarry was seen entering the gymnasium complex where she mounted a static bicycle and proceeded to pedal for a period of fifteen minutes. The peddling started at a fairly slow rate timed at thirty revolutions a minute and this went up to..........”
“Yes. Yes.” said the husband completely exasperated by the private investigators delivery. “I know all that. Was the bloody woman caught with her knickers down?”
The ex-Sargent Major confirmed that at no time had the quarry been caught in a “compromising position”.
Duly dismissed the husband considered the latest report on his wife. The description of her as “the quarry” did nothing to alleviate his doubts. The picture in his mind of someone mining in the quarry became rather too vivid so he called a third agency.
The private investigator arrived (this one looked rather like John Humphries of the BBC) and he was taken through the same brief that his two predecessors had been given.
“Right ho then. I'll keep an eye on the good lady for you,” he said in a way that sounded a bit like John Humphries from the BBC.
A week later and the report from the John Humphries look alike confirmed that the suspect under surveillance was just keeping fit.
“Is that all?” said the husband in complete disbelief and almost disappointment.
Determined not to be beaten, like a man on a mission, the husband sought help from a top team of private investigators from London. On the recommendations of one of his chums in the Bank, and without actually disclosing the real need for the service (he made mention of a lost Labrador), he got in touch with an agency that advocated the use of “hunting in packs”. As the MD of the firm told his new client,
“It's our firm's creed that three heads are better than one, that's why we call ourselves Sixth Sense.” The husband didn't get it and looked momentarily puzzled. “Three heads equals six eyes and six ears, hence Sixth Sense. With our team you get three private investigators on the job.”
The trio were set to work on gathering evidence. They looked like Essex night club bouncers with shaved heads and the sort of physique that said, “Don't muck with me.”
Two weeks later back in the offices of Sixth Sense the news about his wife's activities was no different. The black binder with neat typed script and photographs confirmed that it was keep fit on the agenda and nothing in the form of any unusual extra curricular activity.
The husband was mortified. He was also getting somewhat concerned about the thousands of pounds he was spending having his wife watched. Money didn't grow on trees although in his case it did accumulate rather nicely from the hedge fund.
“If you want a job doing properly, do it yourself.” The idea came to him one evening when he'd been leafing through “One Thousand Drawings by Tracey Emin”, a fat book printed on thin paper that confirmed to him that he could draw every bit as well as Miss Emin. He decided to join the Health Spa.
One morning after his wife had left with her usual sing song, “Byeeee,” an hour or so later he set of for the health spa. He parked his Range Rover next to her red BMW and went in to the reception for his induction programme.
“I don't want my wife to know I'm here,” he said to the pretty receptionist. “I'm going to surprise her with my new keep fit regime.” The blonde smiled knowingly. She'd seen it all before. Men trying to get fit for their women. Eric, in his smart track suit, showed him around and took him through a programme of exercises on the gym equipment.
“In just a week or two you'll notice the pounds dropping off you,”said Eric unaware of the thousands already spent by the new member just watching the place.
Eric left him to master a weight lifting machine and quite soon he had worked up a decent sweat. A dip in the pool would be good followed by a session in the steam room and then he'd go and find his wife and surprise her.
It was quite a surprise for all concerned. As he pushed open the door to the steam room and the wall of foggy heat hit him, he could just make out the shapes of some other bodies in the hot house. Sitting on a wooden bench with nothing on at all was his wife and around her in a sort of admiring, dripping semi-circle were six naked men. A sweaty fresh faced boy, an ex-Sargent Major with a very droopy moustache, a damp John Humphries look alike and three Essex night club bouncers each with a hard, glistening head.
“Hello there. Always room for one more,” said his wife through the thick, hot steam.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
BLIND FAITH
The minister had been a big hitter. As Home Secretary he’d been tough on immigration, tough on the causes of immigration. He’d beefed up the police force and, if the figures were to be believed, had reduced reported crime figures by nearly two percent. The Prime Minister thought of him as a jewel in the cabinet crown.
Of course his blindness, his lack of real vision, was what had got him the job in the first place. He was a natural for providing the Government with a smoke screen to hide what was really going on. Being blind the minister couldn’t actually see and had therefore to have total faith in what his advisers told him.
“Are you sure this is a library?” he asked his aide.
“Yes sir.”
“Bloody noisy for a library. And quite a surprise they’re serving champagne too.”
“Yes sir.”
His college at the Foreign Office was stone deaf. He was totally reliant on sign language from his advisers.
“So you’re telling me that there are weapons of mass destruction.” He signed.
“Yes sir.” The sign language answer was quite clear.
At D.E.F.R.A. the minister with responsibility was dumb.
“Have you taken every precaution against the spread of this outbreak?” asked a journalist.
The minister just nodded rather unconvincingly.
Of course his blindness, his lack of real vision, was what had got him the job in the first place. He was a natural for providing the Government with a smoke screen to hide what was really going on. Being blind the minister couldn’t actually see and had therefore to have total faith in what his advisers told him.
“Are you sure this is a library?” he asked his aide.
“Yes sir.”
“Bloody noisy for a library. And quite a surprise they’re serving champagne too.”
“Yes sir.”
His college at the Foreign Office was stone deaf. He was totally reliant on sign language from his advisers.
“So you’re telling me that there are weapons of mass destruction.” He signed.
“Yes sir.” The sign language answer was quite clear.
At D.E.F.R.A. the minister with responsibility was dumb.
“Have you taken every precaution against the spread of this outbreak?” asked a journalist.
The minister just nodded rather unconvincingly.
Tuesday, 20 October 2009
LOOKING A GIFT HORSE IN THE MOUTH
She loved her horses and had grown up with them right from the first “My Little Pony” to the hunter she now clung to as often as she could, a birthday present from her Daddy. Running the company as she tried to, the one her Daddy had started almost twenty years ago, meant that she didn't have all the time to herself and her horse that she would have liked. None the less there were the odd days or half days when she could scive off on the pretext of seeing somebody about something to do with work. No one really asked what the MD was doing. No body questioned her ability or at least not to her face. There were some, senior management and co-directors but not share holders, who muttered behind their hands about the MD's commitment to the job.
“Where's Miranda today?” The question would be asked even though the answer was a foregone conclusion. Miranda was most likely out with her horse.
The company had been successful. Certainly in her Daddy's day the firm had prospered. Making profits was getting harder and harder and Miranda didn't have the business acumen that her Daddy had once shown. She didn't have the drive or the hunger that her Daddy had used to grow the turnover every year. Basically Miranda wanted the perks of her position without the pain of office. She had grown up spoilt and as one ex-employee once said, “The first generation makes it. The second spends it.”
Ex-employees under Miranda's watch were getting to be more plentiful than current employees. Her record at HR (human resources) and hiring and keeping “good people” was abysmal but like the days off no one said much. Like an over indulged child with a new toy, she soon got fed up and wanted to move on to something new, something different. Being MD and a major share holder gave her the power, that dreadful inherited strength, to play with other people's lives as she saw fit to do. If your face didn't fit then you were in and out of the job before you could say, “Where's my desk ?”
Miranda didn't like doing the dirty work herself and always got her long suffering FD (financial director) to clean up after her. He was a well meaning accountant that her Daddy had taken on years previously and who'd become the typical “Yes” man that didn't always suit the business as much as it suited Miranda. It was the FD who had on countless occasions asked hapless candidates to meet him upstairs in the Board room to face the process of redundancy or similar. The Board room actually became known as the Departure Lounge amongst that part of the chattering work force.
Unfair dismissal usually followed unfair dismissal and always Miranda's Daddy would dig deep to settle Miranda's whim, paper over the cracks in her poor decision making. Most victims would disappear without a fight some happy to be let free from a job they didn't much enjoy and some (the more senior) with a little tax free pay in their pocket and a few weeks gardening leave because Miranda didn't want them reappearing in the competition's camp straight away.
One day in January, just when every one had started back after the Christmas break, Miranda asked her FD to get rid of Billy. Billy she had decided was no good at his job in the warehouse and his position could easily be made redundant saving a few grand a year and helping to cut the overheads in an effort to shore up the business against increasing losses.
“Billy is surplus to current requirement,” she told the FD, “so please get rid of him.”
Now even though Billy appeared a bit simple and was the sort who'd never look at you when being spoken to, he didn't take what the FD told him about the job being made redundant as obvious.
“Who's going to drive the fork lift?” he asked the FD who in truth couldn't answer.
What Miranda had failed to tell her FD was that she had promised a friend of hers, someone's son from the riding stables she used, that he could have a job in the warehouse for less than Billy had been paid. What she didn't know was that Billy and the new boy drank in the same pub and that only the night before Billy was invited by the FD to the Departure Lounge, he and the new employee had been toasting their new working relationship together.
“That's a bit of a cock up.” said the FD when the truth came out. “You can't make a role redundant and then take someone on for the same job.”
“I know that. I'm not thick. ” Miranda knew that she had made another mistake. She also worked on the premise that the best form of defence is attack.
“Billy won't do anything about it, “ she said to her FD dismissively.
She was wrong. A letter came in from Billy's solicitor, the one he went to see and the one who was happy to take on his case.
“We'll sack him then,” said Miranda annoyed that this hick-up was anywhere near her desk. “Let's do him for gross misconduct or anything. There must be something on him we can get him for.”
The FD's task was to find something on Billy and the witch-hunt began. There was a verbal warning on his personnel file when he'd parked his red van in one of the Director's car parking spaces that time he was late and couldn't find another space anywhere. He'd meant to move it but had forgotten and by mid-morning the question had been asked, “Why is that tatty red van parked in the Director's car parking space?”
He had too been told not to drive the fork lift so fast and without a hard hat on. There wasn't a paper trail on this but the warehouse manager (he hadn't been in the job that long) remembered that Billy had been told.
“Put everything in writing,” said the frustrated FD who put everything in writing.
What got him in the end was the misuse of company e-mails. Billy had sent an e-mail from the company e-mail address to a mail order company asking for some sexual enhancing pills to be sent to him at his place of work so that his mother, who he lived at home with, didn't get to see the packet that the postman eventually delivered. She would have opened it as she did with most of Billy's post. It was, so the FD told him, a serious breach of his service agreement to use the company e-mail system for unauthorised personal use and as such Billy was going to be suspended.
Sadly Billy's case never went to the tribunal that considers such things. Billy couldn't afford the fees that his solicitor needed to fight his corner.
“You might have a good case for unfair dismissal,” said the lawyer, “but I'm afraid that it's a case I cannot take on if you're not insured.” Sadly for Billy he wasn't.
Miranda brushed aside the affair and Billy's departure made way for her friend's son, the one she'd promised the job to. She met her at the riding stables and her friend thanked her for giving her son the job.
“I'm not the managing director for nothing,” said Miranda as she set off on her high horse , set off for her usual decent Monday afternoon's hack in the country-side.
Miranda didn't see the thin wire stretched tightly between the two gate posts at about hock height. Her horse who'd been encouraged into a decent canter didn't either and as the wire sliced neatly into its flesh the animal crashed to the ground with an ungainly lurch that put its rider clean over its head so that when the two had finished sliding along the firm ground both had broken their necks. They lay together, face to stunned face, head to bleeding head, in grotesque close proximity.
No one saw the tatty red van as it pulled away from the lay-by not far from where Miranda was looking a gift horse in the mouth.
“Where's Miranda today?” The question would be asked even though the answer was a foregone conclusion. Miranda was most likely out with her horse.
The company had been successful. Certainly in her Daddy's day the firm had prospered. Making profits was getting harder and harder and Miranda didn't have the business acumen that her Daddy had once shown. She didn't have the drive or the hunger that her Daddy had used to grow the turnover every year. Basically Miranda wanted the perks of her position without the pain of office. She had grown up spoilt and as one ex-employee once said, “The first generation makes it. The second spends it.”
Ex-employees under Miranda's watch were getting to be more plentiful than current employees. Her record at HR (human resources) and hiring and keeping “good people” was abysmal but like the days off no one said much. Like an over indulged child with a new toy, she soon got fed up and wanted to move on to something new, something different. Being MD and a major share holder gave her the power, that dreadful inherited strength, to play with other people's lives as she saw fit to do. If your face didn't fit then you were in and out of the job before you could say, “Where's my desk ?”
Miranda didn't like doing the dirty work herself and always got her long suffering FD (financial director) to clean up after her. He was a well meaning accountant that her Daddy had taken on years previously and who'd become the typical “Yes” man that didn't always suit the business as much as it suited Miranda. It was the FD who had on countless occasions asked hapless candidates to meet him upstairs in the Board room to face the process of redundancy or similar. The Board room actually became known as the Departure Lounge amongst that part of the chattering work force.
Unfair dismissal usually followed unfair dismissal and always Miranda's Daddy would dig deep to settle Miranda's whim, paper over the cracks in her poor decision making. Most victims would disappear without a fight some happy to be let free from a job they didn't much enjoy and some (the more senior) with a little tax free pay in their pocket and a few weeks gardening leave because Miranda didn't want them reappearing in the competition's camp straight away.
One day in January, just when every one had started back after the Christmas break, Miranda asked her FD to get rid of Billy. Billy she had decided was no good at his job in the warehouse and his position could easily be made redundant saving a few grand a year and helping to cut the overheads in an effort to shore up the business against increasing losses.
“Billy is surplus to current requirement,” she told the FD, “so please get rid of him.”
Now even though Billy appeared a bit simple and was the sort who'd never look at you when being spoken to, he didn't take what the FD told him about the job being made redundant as obvious.
“Who's going to drive the fork lift?” he asked the FD who in truth couldn't answer.
What Miranda had failed to tell her FD was that she had promised a friend of hers, someone's son from the riding stables she used, that he could have a job in the warehouse for less than Billy had been paid. What she didn't know was that Billy and the new boy drank in the same pub and that only the night before Billy was invited by the FD to the Departure Lounge, he and the new employee had been toasting their new working relationship together.
“That's a bit of a cock up.” said the FD when the truth came out. “You can't make a role redundant and then take someone on for the same job.”
“I know that. I'm not thick. ” Miranda knew that she had made another mistake. She also worked on the premise that the best form of defence is attack.
“Billy won't do anything about it, “ she said to her FD dismissively.
She was wrong. A letter came in from Billy's solicitor, the one he went to see and the one who was happy to take on his case.
“We'll sack him then,” said Miranda annoyed that this hick-up was anywhere near her desk. “Let's do him for gross misconduct or anything. There must be something on him we can get him for.”
The FD's task was to find something on Billy and the witch-hunt began. There was a verbal warning on his personnel file when he'd parked his red van in one of the Director's car parking spaces that time he was late and couldn't find another space anywhere. He'd meant to move it but had forgotten and by mid-morning the question had been asked, “Why is that tatty red van parked in the Director's car parking space?”
He had too been told not to drive the fork lift so fast and without a hard hat on. There wasn't a paper trail on this but the warehouse manager (he hadn't been in the job that long) remembered that Billy had been told.
“Put everything in writing,” said the frustrated FD who put everything in writing.
What got him in the end was the misuse of company e-mails. Billy had sent an e-mail from the company e-mail address to a mail order company asking for some sexual enhancing pills to be sent to him at his place of work so that his mother, who he lived at home with, didn't get to see the packet that the postman eventually delivered. She would have opened it as she did with most of Billy's post. It was, so the FD told him, a serious breach of his service agreement to use the company e-mail system for unauthorised personal use and as such Billy was going to be suspended.
Sadly Billy's case never went to the tribunal that considers such things. Billy couldn't afford the fees that his solicitor needed to fight his corner.
“You might have a good case for unfair dismissal,” said the lawyer, “but I'm afraid that it's a case I cannot take on if you're not insured.” Sadly for Billy he wasn't.
Miranda brushed aside the affair and Billy's departure made way for her friend's son, the one she'd promised the job to. She met her at the riding stables and her friend thanked her for giving her son the job.
“I'm not the managing director for nothing,” said Miranda as she set off on her high horse , set off for her usual decent Monday afternoon's hack in the country-side.
Miranda didn't see the thin wire stretched tightly between the two gate posts at about hock height. Her horse who'd been encouraged into a decent canter didn't either and as the wire sliced neatly into its flesh the animal crashed to the ground with an ungainly lurch that put its rider clean over its head so that when the two had finished sliding along the firm ground both had broken their necks. They lay together, face to stunned face, head to bleeding head, in grotesque close proximity.
No one saw the tatty red van as it pulled away from the lay-by not far from where Miranda was looking a gift horse in the mouth.
Friday, 9 October 2009
TROPHY WIFE
The Honourable Angus was tremendously proud of his collection. Over the years he had harvested a herd of trophies mostly from Africa but there was a smattering of taxidermy from South America and three tigers he had shot illegally in India. In pride of place over the big stone fireplace, firmly set between two magnificent lions heads, was his rogue bull elephant, the tusks protruding right out into the room seven foot or so above the floor so that for a party piece he could, when encouraged by too much whiskey and the shouts of his chums, perform a sort of gymnastic stunt by gripping each tusk in his hands and lifting himself up off the ground. The skill was to see how many lifts from the floor in front of the fireplace the Honourable Angus could perform before his muscles wouldn't let him do any more. The whole stunt wasn't always done just for show and would on occasions involve serious competition with anyone foolish or drunk enough to issue a challenge. The Honourable Angus though was so far unbeaten in the “Jumbo squat thrust stakes” as he called the exercise or as his long suffering wife named it, his “tinkering between the ivories.”
“How much do you want to bet this time?” The Honourable Angus was goading Jonny.
“Fifty quid,” said Jonny with more confidence than his wallet should have allowed.
“Oh Jonny don't be a fool. He's bound to beat you.” The Honourable Angus's wife had a soft spot for Jonny and she knew her husband would win the bet.
“Fifty quid.” Jonny confirmed the wager and the Honourable Angus removed his jacket ready for the trial.
It was another easy fifty pounds and the Honourable Angus managed fifteen lifts to Jonny's twelve. The two men slumped exhausted by their efforts into the leather arm chairs in front of the fire place.
“I'll bloody well beat you one day,” said Jonny.
“I doubt it,” replied the Honourable Angus. “But you're welcome to keep trying.”
The two men drank far too much whiskey and the Honourable Angus's wife probably over did it on the fizzy white and she tottered her way up to bed relieved that Jonny had decided to stay the night rather than risk the breathalyser.
The Honourable Angus came up several hours later and collapsed onto the bed in a state of drunken dishevelment. His wife tried to undress him but the decidedly unfriendly grunts and groans that he uttered put her off the job and she left him on his side of the big bed to snore with a token bit of the duvet over his dressed body.
She got up and went to the adjoining bathroom, squatting down, as she always did, without touching the seat to pee. Like her mother before her she had never liked contact with the seat of a lavatory, home or away, and so avoided it.
She hadn't heard Jonny come up and decided to go and see if he was alright. She padded along the landing and found the spare rooms empty with no sign of any life at all. The door to the guest's bathroom was open and she peered in to the empty room calling out his name in a half whisper. Heading down the main stairs in her bare feet, she pulled the pinstriped shirt, one of the Honourable Angus's old ones which she had adopted as her night dress, more closely around her shoulders and neck. She could see the dim light from the slightly open drawing room door way and she entered quietly.
At the far end of the long room she could see the figure of Jonny as he pulled himself up and down between the elephant's tusks. She stood quite still and took in the show before her. Jonny had no clothes on. It was , she began to realise, quite erotic watching Jonny, dear Jonny, straining with his back to her, the moisture on his body glistening in the warm glow of the table lamp that had sole responsibility for lighting the room. She could feel his efforts, see his sinews as they strained to lift and lower his undressed body. The biceps muscles on his arms tensed and relaxed as he went up then down, up, then down. His shoulder blades moved like metal plates beneath their taute skin covering. The hollows of his buttocks puckered, in then out, with every rise and fall. The Honourable Angus's wife felt as horny as the big Elephant's tusks she saw Jonny, dear Jonny, swinging his neat, naked body between, so beautifully in front of her.
She approached very quietly on bare tip toe and when he had lifted himself up off the floor once more, reached around his hips with her outstretched arms to feel for that most sensitive area of Jonny's anatomy, dear Jonny's anatomy. The effect of the Honourable Angus's wife's touch was electrifying. Jonny leapt and danced like an enraged cock salmon hooked on a fishing fly and fell to the floor uttering the words “Fuck me!”, a command that the Honourable Angus's wife didn't disappoint in carrying out almost as soon as Jonny had hit the floor.
And so it was that the Honourable Angus's wife and Jonny became lovers. In the very early hours under the watchful gaze of that vast grey head, the Honourable Angus's wife had the best sex she had had probably for ten years. It was as though the rogue bull himself was taking her and indeed at one stage a ménage a trois developed with the Honourable Angus's wife hanging on to the tusks while Jonny took full advantage of what was so obviously on offer just above him.
“That was the best tinkering between the ivories I've ever had,” she said to Jonny as the two of them sat spent together in the old arm chair under the twinkling, smiling, knowing eyes of that old rogue bull and the two lions. What comes round goes around the animals thought and how appropriate it was that justice had been done and the Honourable Angus's wife had been stuffed and mounted too.
“How much do you want to bet this time?” The Honourable Angus was goading Jonny.
“Fifty quid,” said Jonny with more confidence than his wallet should have allowed.
“Oh Jonny don't be a fool. He's bound to beat you.” The Honourable Angus's wife had a soft spot for Jonny and she knew her husband would win the bet.
“Fifty quid.” Jonny confirmed the wager and the Honourable Angus removed his jacket ready for the trial.
It was another easy fifty pounds and the Honourable Angus managed fifteen lifts to Jonny's twelve. The two men slumped exhausted by their efforts into the leather arm chairs in front of the fire place.
“I'll bloody well beat you one day,” said Jonny.
“I doubt it,” replied the Honourable Angus. “But you're welcome to keep trying.”
The two men drank far too much whiskey and the Honourable Angus's wife probably over did it on the fizzy white and she tottered her way up to bed relieved that Jonny had decided to stay the night rather than risk the breathalyser.
The Honourable Angus came up several hours later and collapsed onto the bed in a state of drunken dishevelment. His wife tried to undress him but the decidedly unfriendly grunts and groans that he uttered put her off the job and she left him on his side of the big bed to snore with a token bit of the duvet over his dressed body.
She got up and went to the adjoining bathroom, squatting down, as she always did, without touching the seat to pee. Like her mother before her she had never liked contact with the seat of a lavatory, home or away, and so avoided it.
She hadn't heard Jonny come up and decided to go and see if he was alright. She padded along the landing and found the spare rooms empty with no sign of any life at all. The door to the guest's bathroom was open and she peered in to the empty room calling out his name in a half whisper. Heading down the main stairs in her bare feet, she pulled the pinstriped shirt, one of the Honourable Angus's old ones which she had adopted as her night dress, more closely around her shoulders and neck. She could see the dim light from the slightly open drawing room door way and she entered quietly.
At the far end of the long room she could see the figure of Jonny as he pulled himself up and down between the elephant's tusks. She stood quite still and took in the show before her. Jonny had no clothes on. It was , she began to realise, quite erotic watching Jonny, dear Jonny, straining with his back to her, the moisture on his body glistening in the warm glow of the table lamp that had sole responsibility for lighting the room. She could feel his efforts, see his sinews as they strained to lift and lower his undressed body. The biceps muscles on his arms tensed and relaxed as he went up then down, up, then down. His shoulder blades moved like metal plates beneath their taute skin covering. The hollows of his buttocks puckered, in then out, with every rise and fall. The Honourable Angus's wife felt as horny as the big Elephant's tusks she saw Jonny, dear Jonny, swinging his neat, naked body between, so beautifully in front of her.
She approached very quietly on bare tip toe and when he had lifted himself up off the floor once more, reached around his hips with her outstretched arms to feel for that most sensitive area of Jonny's anatomy, dear Jonny's anatomy. The effect of the Honourable Angus's wife's touch was electrifying. Jonny leapt and danced like an enraged cock salmon hooked on a fishing fly and fell to the floor uttering the words “Fuck me!”, a command that the Honourable Angus's wife didn't disappoint in carrying out almost as soon as Jonny had hit the floor.
And so it was that the Honourable Angus's wife and Jonny became lovers. In the very early hours under the watchful gaze of that vast grey head, the Honourable Angus's wife had the best sex she had had probably for ten years. It was as though the rogue bull himself was taking her and indeed at one stage a ménage a trois developed with the Honourable Angus's wife hanging on to the tusks while Jonny took full advantage of what was so obviously on offer just above him.
“That was the best tinkering between the ivories I've ever had,” she said to Jonny as the two of them sat spent together in the old arm chair under the twinkling, smiling, knowing eyes of that old rogue bull and the two lions. What comes round goes around the animals thought and how appropriate it was that justice had been done and the Honourable Angus's wife had been stuffed and mounted too.
Thursday, 1 October 2009
THE WRITER AND PLAICE
THE WAITER AND PLAICE.
THE WRITER AND PLACE.
Chick was dyslectic.
Chuck was dyslectic.
Some tomes he just couldn’t ream a worm but on other occasions he would
Some times he just couldn’t read a word but on other occasions he would
very nearly make the end of a long lane. It was only the rotten world he
very nearly make the end of a long line. It was only the written word he
wood fund difficult. With spanking he hid no problem. Chick could convert
would find difficult. With speaking he had no problem. Chuck could converse
without paws, torque four ours. Chick’s emission was to become a waiter.
without pause, talk for hours. Chuck’s ambition was to become a writer.
Not just a ran of the mall waiter but a grope one like Earning Hummingway
Not just a run of the mill writer but a great one like Earnest Hemmingway
or Martian Aimless. Chick tired. He tired very herd. He would cry and
or Martin Aimess. Chuck tried. He tried very hard. He would try and
wrote a sentence hand show it to his mother who, of curse, could not make
write a sentence and show it to his mother who, of course, could not make
hood or toil of it.
head or tail of it.
“You’ll never be a waiter as long as there’s a whole in your apse,” said his
“You’ll never be a writer as long as there’s a hole in your arse,” said his
ma scaring the yang Chick.
ma scarring the young Chuck.
Under toured he purse severed and with the skull and patients of a stain,
Undeterred he persevered and with the skill and patience of a saint,
his early Tudor, Miss Anthrop, got Chick threw. He bosomed like a prize
his early tutor, Miss Anthrop, got Chuck through. He blossomed like a prize
moron at the haughty cultural sock eighty anal slow. Chick’s closet fiend
marrow at the horticultural society annual show. Chuck’s closest friend
was his spell cheque, the won on his lip tap. If he pinched the worm into his
was his spell check, the one on his lap top. If he punched the word into his
quay bored and it wanked, this was the whey to smell properly. He could,
key board and it worked, this was the way to spell properly. He could,
with the heap of madden scents, bee come a waiter.
with the help of modern science, become a writer.
Chick’s stale, his pros, got him father then oven he had him aged.
Chuck’s style, his prose, got him further then even he had imagined.
Tea cheers wood cool him on the fern washing to sea his writhing. Chick
Teachers would call him on the phone wishing to see his writing. Chuck
had celibacy state arse.
had celebrity status.
Of cause Chick became a collage lecher and torte, but in his spire tame he
Of course Chuck became a college lecturer and taught, but in his spare time he
was a writer in a fish rest rant.
THE WRITER AND PLACE.
Chick was dyslectic.
Chuck was dyslectic.
Some tomes he just couldn’t ream a worm but on other occasions he would
Some times he just couldn’t read a word but on other occasions he would
very nearly make the end of a long lane. It was only the rotten world he
very nearly make the end of a long line. It was only the written word he
wood fund difficult. With spanking he hid no problem. Chick could convert
would find difficult. With speaking he had no problem. Chuck could converse
without paws, torque four ours. Chick’s emission was to become a waiter.
without pause, talk for hours. Chuck’s ambition was to become a writer.
Not just a ran of the mall waiter but a grope one like Earning Hummingway
Not just a run of the mill writer but a great one like Earnest Hemmingway
or Martian Aimless. Chick tired. He tired very herd. He would cry and
or Martin Aimess. Chuck tried. He tried very hard. He would try and
wrote a sentence hand show it to his mother who, of curse, could not make
write a sentence and show it to his mother who, of course, could not make
hood or toil of it.
head or tail of it.
“You’ll never be a waiter as long as there’s a whole in your apse,” said his
“You’ll never be a writer as long as there’s a hole in your arse,” said his
ma scaring the yang Chick.
ma scarring the young Chuck.
Under toured he purse severed and with the skull and patients of a stain,
Undeterred he persevered and with the skill and patience of a saint,
his early Tudor, Miss Anthrop, got Chick threw. He bosomed like a prize
his early tutor, Miss Anthrop, got Chuck through. He blossomed like a prize
moron at the haughty cultural sock eighty anal slow. Chick’s closet fiend
marrow at the horticultural society annual show. Chuck’s closest friend
was his spell cheque, the won on his lip tap. If he pinched the worm into his
was his spell check, the one on his lap top. If he punched the word into his
quay bored and it wanked, this was the whey to smell properly. He could,
key board and it worked, this was the way to spell properly. He could,
with the heap of madden scents, bee come a waiter.
with the help of modern science, become a writer.
Chick’s stale, his pros, got him father then oven he had him aged.
Chuck’s style, his prose, got him further then even he had imagined.
Tea cheers wood cool him on the fern washing to sea his writhing. Chick
Teachers would call him on the phone wishing to see his writing. Chuck
had celibacy state arse.
had celebrity status.
Of cause Chick became a collage lecher and torte, but in his spire tame he
Of course Chuck became a college lecturer and taught, but in his spare time he
was a writer in a fish rest rant.
KINGCOMBE OAKS
How many drovers before took their rest right here
sat beneath the spreading bows to sip October’s air?
How many felt the leaves turn crisp waiting for the word
to float and kiss the earth below, a counterpane for sward?
Raucous crows still shout like louts, applause from rasping jays
they sense the combe is spewing forth its food for winter days.
And short horns moan and munch the cud still fattening out at grass
but drovers now won’t come this way to tramp this ancient pass.
These Hardy oaks have weathered years, a century or more
while modern droving rushes by upon its four by four.
And have we all forgotten as season’s ebb and flow
Just what it was that drovers had not many years ago?
Kingcombe oaks remind us, stout guardians gaining girth
those drovers and the meek man shall inherit all the earth.
sat beneath the spreading bows to sip October’s air?
How many felt the leaves turn crisp waiting for the word
to float and kiss the earth below, a counterpane for sward?
Raucous crows still shout like louts, applause from rasping jays
they sense the combe is spewing forth its food for winter days.
And short horns moan and munch the cud still fattening out at grass
but drovers now won’t come this way to tramp this ancient pass.
These Hardy oaks have weathered years, a century or more
while modern droving rushes by upon its four by four.
And have we all forgotten as season’s ebb and flow
Just what it was that drovers had not many years ago?
Kingcombe oaks remind us, stout guardians gaining girth
those drovers and the meek man shall inherit all the earth.
ROLLOVER
Jake was feeling in a good mood so he bought two lucky dips from the nice girl behind the fag counter in Martin’s the newsagents. He told her his pet joke too.
“Man goes to a zoo but there was only one dog. It was a Shitzu.”
The nice girl behind the counter wobbled with laughter. She handed Jake his lottery ticket and wished him luck. She wished most of her customers luck. Those that spoke politely to her, made an effort at conversation, showed they were human, not just impatient shoppers in a hurry.
“If you win the jackpot will you share it with me?” she said. She said it to lots of punters and they always smiled back at her. Some said “Of course love” without meaning it but most just smiled back at her. The young men thought that if they won, they’d get shacked up with Abbie Titmuss or any bit of decent totty, rather than the nice girl behind the fag counter. The nice girl behind the fag counter wasn’t a looker. Some said, rather cruelly, that she needed to carry a government health warning. Jake, on the other hand, came from the school of you don’t look at the mantle piece when you’re poking the fire. There was something he quite liked about the nice girl and he didn’t care about health warnings.
“If I win you can have half but you’ll have to make a honest man of me.” He said and the nice girl giggled at the idea. She liked Jake. As her customer’s went, Jake was all right. She quite fancied him.
Jake didn’t win. Only one of his numbers came up and he screwed up the phoney bit of paper-thin dreams and chucked it in the bin, the pedal bin next to the kitchen sink. It lodged between a smeared tin of meatballs and a wet bottle of Beck’s. The discarded knot of paper, the one that had been bought with so much optimism, lay scrunched up next to a damp Typhoo tea bag and a three quarters eaten apple tart in its tin foil dish. The little piece of printed hope had turned into no hope when six numbered balls spewed from Sir Gallahad at the press of a button by the smiling, fat, Irish TV man who spoke those meaningless words, “Good luck everyone.”
Jake felt robbed. It had been a rollover too. Twenty three million pounds and he hadn’t won a penny. Someone had though and the next time he called at the newsagent the talk from one of the girls who worked with the nice girl was that the winning ticket had been purchased from them.
“Just imagine that,” the girl who worked with the nice girl said to Jake as she passed him a packet of Marlborough Lites. “Some lucky bugger’s won the lot and we sold them the ticket.”
“How d’you know?” asked Jake.
“Lottery HQ tell us,” replied the girl who worked with the nice girl.
The local rag was full of it. Who, asked the headlines, was the mystery winner? No one came forward and within a week the search was forgotten and the headlines roared about a local lad who’d been killed in Basra.
On the Saturday evening, two weeks after the big jackpot, Jake breezed into the newsagents and waited until the nice girl was free. He’d got a plan.
“It was me.” He said to her almost too quickly.
“What was?”
“It was me that won the rollover jackpot.”
“You can’t have done,” said the nice girl.
“I bloody can,” said Jake. “What time d’you finish work because we’ve got some planning to do.”
They met in the snug bar of the Rose and Crown. The nice girl had a Cinzano and lemonade and Jake had his usual pint of larger. They got on well and after nearly too much to drink they walked back to Jake’s flat with a large Domino’s Pizza to share.
After the feed, the nice girl let Jake take advantage of her. She undressed and the two of them embraced on Jake’s old sofa and one thing led to another.
“Roll over,” implored Jake as he wrestled with his shirt. “I want to take you from behind.”
The nice girl let him and Jake had his way selfishly and in a matter of moments. Less time than it took to pick the six lucky balls.
“Right.” He said after he’d got himself dressed. “You’d better be going.”
“What?” said the nice girl somewhat taken aback. “Not even a cup of coffee.”
“Have a cup of coffee by all means. But then you ought to go. By the way I never won the lottery. I lied. I just wanted to shag you that’s all.”
The nice girl looked at Jake with pity. Pity turned to disgust and then disgust turned to amusement. She started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” said Jake.
“Nothing really,” said the nice girl. “ It’s just that it was me that won the rollover.”
“Man goes to a zoo but there was only one dog. It was a Shitzu.”
The nice girl behind the counter wobbled with laughter. She handed Jake his lottery ticket and wished him luck. She wished most of her customers luck. Those that spoke politely to her, made an effort at conversation, showed they were human, not just impatient shoppers in a hurry.
“If you win the jackpot will you share it with me?” she said. She said it to lots of punters and they always smiled back at her. Some said “Of course love” without meaning it but most just smiled back at her. The young men thought that if they won, they’d get shacked up with Abbie Titmuss or any bit of decent totty, rather than the nice girl behind the fag counter. The nice girl behind the fag counter wasn’t a looker. Some said, rather cruelly, that she needed to carry a government health warning. Jake, on the other hand, came from the school of you don’t look at the mantle piece when you’re poking the fire. There was something he quite liked about the nice girl and he didn’t care about health warnings.
“If I win you can have half but you’ll have to make a honest man of me.” He said and the nice girl giggled at the idea. She liked Jake. As her customer’s went, Jake was all right. She quite fancied him.
Jake didn’t win. Only one of his numbers came up and he screwed up the phoney bit of paper-thin dreams and chucked it in the bin, the pedal bin next to the kitchen sink. It lodged between a smeared tin of meatballs and a wet bottle of Beck’s. The discarded knot of paper, the one that had been bought with so much optimism, lay scrunched up next to a damp Typhoo tea bag and a three quarters eaten apple tart in its tin foil dish. The little piece of printed hope had turned into no hope when six numbered balls spewed from Sir Gallahad at the press of a button by the smiling, fat, Irish TV man who spoke those meaningless words, “Good luck everyone.”
Jake felt robbed. It had been a rollover too. Twenty three million pounds and he hadn’t won a penny. Someone had though and the next time he called at the newsagent the talk from one of the girls who worked with the nice girl was that the winning ticket had been purchased from them.
“Just imagine that,” the girl who worked with the nice girl said to Jake as she passed him a packet of Marlborough Lites. “Some lucky bugger’s won the lot and we sold them the ticket.”
“How d’you know?” asked Jake.
“Lottery HQ tell us,” replied the girl who worked with the nice girl.
The local rag was full of it. Who, asked the headlines, was the mystery winner? No one came forward and within a week the search was forgotten and the headlines roared about a local lad who’d been killed in Basra.
On the Saturday evening, two weeks after the big jackpot, Jake breezed into the newsagents and waited until the nice girl was free. He’d got a plan.
“It was me.” He said to her almost too quickly.
“What was?”
“It was me that won the rollover jackpot.”
“You can’t have done,” said the nice girl.
“I bloody can,” said Jake. “What time d’you finish work because we’ve got some planning to do.”
They met in the snug bar of the Rose and Crown. The nice girl had a Cinzano and lemonade and Jake had his usual pint of larger. They got on well and after nearly too much to drink they walked back to Jake’s flat with a large Domino’s Pizza to share.
After the feed, the nice girl let Jake take advantage of her. She undressed and the two of them embraced on Jake’s old sofa and one thing led to another.
“Roll over,” implored Jake as he wrestled with his shirt. “I want to take you from behind.”
The nice girl let him and Jake had his way selfishly and in a matter of moments. Less time than it took to pick the six lucky balls.
“Right.” He said after he’d got himself dressed. “You’d better be going.”
“What?” said the nice girl somewhat taken aback. “Not even a cup of coffee.”
“Have a cup of coffee by all means. But then you ought to go. By the way I never won the lottery. I lied. I just wanted to shag you that’s all.”
The nice girl looked at Jake with pity. Pity turned to disgust and then disgust turned to amusement. She started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” said Jake.
“Nothing really,” said the nice girl. “ It’s just that it was me that won the rollover.”
SOUND RELATIONSHIP
Wah, wah, wah,
start-up sound of life
gas and air have done their stuff
so too an old midwife.
Pooh, pooh, pooh,
messy sleepless nights
Calpol and the Bugaboo
cot death night-time frights.
No, no, no,
you can't have any more
well because I say so
and you've eaten twenty-four.
Kiss, kiss, kiss,
it's time to say good night
don't forget to clean your teeth
and mind the bugs don't bite.
Sob, sob, sob,
it really isn't fair
he did it to me first
by pulling out my hair.
Shan't, won't, can't,
I hate you anyway
now you're not my friend no more,
I never want to play.
Ha, ha, ha,
he, he, he,
goodie goodie gumdrops
granny's come for tea.
Hug, hug, hug,
I’ll always love you mum
you’re the best there is
you’re the number one.
Why , why , why,
oh please do let me go
I will be home by half past ten
I cross my heart you know.
Slash, slash, slash
dying at the scene
cut by mindless violence
Scream. Scream. Scream.
start-up sound of life
gas and air have done their stuff
so too an old midwife.
Pooh, pooh, pooh,
messy sleepless nights
Calpol and the Bugaboo
cot death night-time frights.
No, no, no,
you can't have any more
well because I say so
and you've eaten twenty-four.
Kiss, kiss, kiss,
it's time to say good night
don't forget to clean your teeth
and mind the bugs don't bite.
Sob, sob, sob,
it really isn't fair
he did it to me first
by pulling out my hair.
Shan't, won't, can't,
I hate you anyway
now you're not my friend no more,
I never want to play.
Ha, ha, ha,
he, he, he,
goodie goodie gumdrops
granny's come for tea.
Hug, hug, hug,
I’ll always love you mum
you’re the best there is
you’re the number one.
Why , why , why,
oh please do let me go
I will be home by half past ten
I cross my heart you know.
Slash, slash, slash
dying at the scene
cut by mindless violence
Scream. Scream. Scream.
GLOBAL WARMING
He quite often got rather hot under the collar. But then Donald would. He’d developed a bad temper. “Got out of bed the wrong side, ” was how his wife Eve described his mood some mornings when Donald was obviously not on top form. “Grumpy old bugger” was what she really thought.
Donald didn’t used to be like that. Circumstances had made him. The wear and tear of life had got to him. The mortgage, the bills, the job, the sodding neighbours, speeding cameras and bloody parking tickets, the crap on the TV, immigration, Iraq, Tony fucking Blair, soft Judges, the lack of local police (“When on earth did you last see one in our street?”) and the price of petrol; everything had just piled up. He couldn’t put his finger on the actual date when things had changed. They had though. Rather like his thinning, grey hair, it had happened gradually. He thought it was somewhere between fifty-four and a half and fifty-six that things had probably really got worse. He didn’t really enjoy sex with his wife anymore and didn’t think about doing it with any body else’s either. His waistline could no longer be pulled in for any length of time and he had become pear shaped in both senses of the word. He looked stupid in jeans and ridiculous on any beach. But by far his biggest worry was climate change.
“Well what can you do about it dear?” said his wife to him when Donald read out aloud anything pertinent to environmental issues reported in the Daily Telegraph.
“We just can’t let the third world do what we did. They can’t be allowed to make the same mistakes.”
“What? You mean we can use their oil, mine their natural resources, but we mustn’t let them drive cars or have dish washers.”
“Something like that,” said Donald.
They liked their holiday’s abroad. Donald spent hours leafing through piles of glossy brochures, putting post-it notes on those pages he thought might be of interest. They’d been to Santorini in the spring, the remneant of a volcano set like pumice stone in the Aegean Sea. They quite liked it but Donald thought that it was being ruined by tourism. In February they chose Zanzibar, the Spice Island.
When their battered mini-bus had been stopped on the bumpy dirt track en route from the airport to their resort hotel, the angry crowd terrified Donald and Eve Global. They were abducted and taken off into the bush by a group of machete wielding natives. The ritualistic way in which they met their end was taken straight off the pages of history. The Acting British Consul in Stonetown had never seen anything like it before. Donald and his wife were boiled alive, each cooked in an old oil drum filled with salt water and heated up on a fire of broken wooden pallets, rubber tyres and old tree stumps.
Donald didn’t used to be like that. Circumstances had made him. The wear and tear of life had got to him. The mortgage, the bills, the job, the sodding neighbours, speeding cameras and bloody parking tickets, the crap on the TV, immigration, Iraq, Tony fucking Blair, soft Judges, the lack of local police (“When on earth did you last see one in our street?”) and the price of petrol; everything had just piled up. He couldn’t put his finger on the actual date when things had changed. They had though. Rather like his thinning, grey hair, it had happened gradually. He thought it was somewhere between fifty-four and a half and fifty-six that things had probably really got worse. He didn’t really enjoy sex with his wife anymore and didn’t think about doing it with any body else’s either. His waistline could no longer be pulled in for any length of time and he had become pear shaped in both senses of the word. He looked stupid in jeans and ridiculous on any beach. But by far his biggest worry was climate change.
“Well what can you do about it dear?” said his wife to him when Donald read out aloud anything pertinent to environmental issues reported in the Daily Telegraph.
“We just can’t let the third world do what we did. They can’t be allowed to make the same mistakes.”
“What? You mean we can use their oil, mine their natural resources, but we mustn’t let them drive cars or have dish washers.”
“Something like that,” said Donald.
They liked their holiday’s abroad. Donald spent hours leafing through piles of glossy brochures, putting post-it notes on those pages he thought might be of interest. They’d been to Santorini in the spring, the remneant of a volcano set like pumice stone in the Aegean Sea. They quite liked it but Donald thought that it was being ruined by tourism. In February they chose Zanzibar, the Spice Island.
When their battered mini-bus had been stopped on the bumpy dirt track en route from the airport to their resort hotel, the angry crowd terrified Donald and Eve Global. They were abducted and taken off into the bush by a group of machete wielding natives. The ritualistic way in which they met their end was taken straight off the pages of history. The Acting British Consul in Stonetown had never seen anything like it before. Donald and his wife were boiled alive, each cooked in an old oil drum filled with salt water and heated up on a fire of broken wooden pallets, rubber tyres and old tree stumps.
GAME BIRD
It was still quite early in the season. The leaves were on the trees and some, those from the old school, said that pheasants shouldn’t really be shot at until the branches were bare. None the less a day out in October got one into the swing of things for the big days in January. Josh was delighted to have been invited to shoot with Ben. More to the point he would have been very offended had he not been. Ben had been his guest several times before and a return invitation was nearly overdue.
They met at the pub in the village and sat down to a full English of ridiculous proportions with lashings of tea or coffee. The talk was the same as when any group of like minded men congregate before a sporting event. The pleasantries out the way, the hand shakes and hellos yes we met at so-and-so’s, and the slap on the backs for those that most certainly knew each other, the talk started. It usually concerned people’s dress sense.
“Bloody hell Dick. Got your wife’s trousers on again I see!” Dick liked fairly garish plus fours. He also like dressing up in his wife’s clothes but no one but him knew how near to the bone the statement was.
“Where on earth did you find that tie?” Ralph had the image of a nearly naked woman emblazoned done his tie.
“It’s the closest he’ll get to a bird all day,” said Michael, his own tie covered in birds of the sort he was hoping to start killing soon.
“Your waistcoat looks like a fucking table clothe!” Rupert was pointing at Larry’s considerable gut.
“ Well at least I made the bloody effort.” Larry was wearing a three-piece shooting suit. “You, you poor hairy arsed farmer couldn’t afford a bit of tailoring of this quality.”
“Oooww,” went the school boy noise from at least three or four of the party.
“Who’s not turned up yet?” Michael asked the day’s host.
“Lucy,” said Ben.
“Who?” said Michael and two others.
“Lucinda. ” Ben smiled as he said her name again.
“Bloody hell.” Michael expressed what several of them felt. “She’s not shooting is she?”
“Yes she is,” said Ben.
“She’s bloody dangerous,” said Michael.
“Not with a gun,” said Ben.
“I didn’t mean with a gun,” said Michael. The others sniggered.
“ Who’s she shagging currently? ” asked Larry.
“No one I know,” replied Ben.
“Fair game then,” said Ralph.
“You keep your gun in its sleeve,” said Ben. They laughed.
“She can shag me any time she likes,” said Larry making one of those clenched fist gestures men do when they are talking dirty.
Lucinda arrived looking gorgeous. Had there been a prize for the best turned out gun, she would have won it hands down. She kissed the host Ben warmly on both cheeks and did pretty much the same to Michael, Larry, Ralph, Rupert and Dick. She shook Josh by the hand.
“Very good to meet you,” she said to him and he got the impression that she really meant it.
The keeper arrived.
“Shed be wend.” He announced the stillness in the weather although to some his dialect was impossible to understand. Ben called for hush and explained the day’s rules. They were eight guns moving two. They were shooting good pheasants and partridge, no woodcock and no ground game. The keeper’s horn would sound the start and end of each drive. If any antis showed up, guns were to be put away in their sleeves and the shoot would be suspended until the police arrived.
“Be better all round if we just added them to the bag.” Michael interrupted Ben’s speech.
Enjoy your day was Ben’s final instruction before he passed around the little leather wallet from which each gun pulled a number. Who stood next to who was always a source of considerable interest, particularly today. All the men wanted to be drawn next to Lucinda.
The guns moved off from the pub in a four-wheel vehicle convoy and headed for the first drive. Lucinda was in the pound seat. She’d drawn number four and straight away she went to work killing everything out in front with the sort of precision shooting that she had become famous for. She only killed birds going away if her neighbours had already missed them. It gave her an enormous sense of satisfaction to wipe the eye of a male gun standing next to her in the line.
The day progressed as shooting days do, with some drives better than others, some shots not as accurate as others and as a result, some guns enjoying themselves more than others. The drink, swing adjuster as Ben called it, was taken after each drive from various flasks and bottles. Larry had brought champagne, which he opened and offered around after the second drive. He held the bottle of bubbly in one hand and a bottle of sloe gin in the other. Some had the two mixed into their glass.
“I call it a sloegasm.” Larry was generous with his income, good with his words.
“Haven’t had one of those,” said Lucinda when it was her turn. The men knew that she was probably not talking about the cocktail. “Important to try everything,” she added which confirmed it in their minds.
The last drive took the bag to over two hundred and Ben and the keeper were both pleased with the day. Everyone headed back to the pub where a private function room had been prepared and a big table laid for the eight shooters.
“Cracking day!” said Larry.
“Hear! Hear!” agreed Michael and they all raised a pre-meal drink as a toast to Ben.
“Thanks for the invitation Ben,” said Josh.
“It’s not over yet,” said Ben with a smile.
After the drinks the party sat down.
“I don’t care who sits where as long as I sit at this end and Lucinda sits at the other.” Ben’s instructions were obeyed and the guests sat down at the table accordingly.
The French onion soup was fine and the beef rare. The vegetables were organic and not cooked to a pulp. The wine was from Burgundy and as soon as one bottle was empty, another took its place. The conversation flowed like the drink and at times everyone seemed to be saying something and then it was just one person holding the talking stick. The late afternoon became evening and after the bread and butter pudding and with the cheese, the port arrived.
“Let’s play a game,” suggested Michael. “Let’s have a sweep on the number of drops that are left in the decanter when we think it’s empty.”
“Don’t be a silly bugger,” said Dick. “When it’s empty it’s empty.”
“No it isn’t,” declared Michael confidently with a slur. “I’ll call fifty dropssh and here’s my twenty pound note.”
Everyone put twenty pounds into the middle of the table and Michael wrote down the eight guesses. Ben elected to perform the pouring ceremony once the decanter was empty and he tipped the cut glass with his steady hands over an empty wine glass and as each drop dripped out the whole group shouted the number in boisterous unison. It was amazing. From a vessel that looked empty, the little drops of dark red liquid continued to emerge. Thirty-seven drops splashed into the wineglass, the last few with a painfully slow reluctance as though they wanted to remain embedded in the decanter forever.
Ralph was the nearest with thirty-six, his age, so he picked up the £160 from the table with much merriment all round.
“I’ve got a good game.” Lucinda’s announcement shut up the general hubbub.
“Go on,” said Ben.
“It’s called cock roulette.” Josh swallowed rather too loudly. Michael nearly choked on his drink.
Lucinda continued to explain the rules to the very captive audience.
“Every one apart from me puts twenty pounds in the kitty. The lights are turned out and the door locked. No one must utter a sound. Everyone changes seats in the dark. Every one sits down and unbuttons or unzips their fly. Everyone gets out his cock. I get under the table and select one lucky member at random and give that member a blowjob. The lucky recipient mustn’t say a word or make a sound. If he does, I stop what I’m doing and he has to pay a forfeit of double what’s on the table. Make a noise and I stop and move on to another contestant. The game is over when the job has been successfully completed without interruption and I turn the lights back on. If you don’t want to play you have to leave, after paying up forty pounds and being clucked out of the room like a chicken.”
Dick looked decidedly uncomfortable. Ralph straightened his loosened tie and chucked a twenty on to the table. Rupert coughed. Larry grinned from ear to ear. Josh thought he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Michael undid his fly and Ben sat quite relaxed at the far end of the table with a bemused smile.
“There’s only one winner of course but I get to keep all the money. Do you understand gentlemen?” No one said that they didn’t. Most just froze like rabbits caught in a headlight.
“Right. Let’s play gentlemen.” Lucinda pushed her chair back from the end of the table and got up to switch off the lights and lock the door.
The room was pitch black and once the men had stopped bumping into each other and found a new seat, an unnatural calm came over the place. Breathing, heavy breathing, was the predominant sound around the table, backed up by the occasional nervous sip taken from a drinking glass. Someone belched loudly and there was a lot of surpressed giggling.
“The game won’t start until you shut up.” Lucinda’s voice came at them like a schoolmistress through the dark.
It wasn’t that difficult to work out who was sitting in which seat and Josh found himself latched on to and sucked and blown to oblivion. He didn’t make a sound. The job done, after a few moments the lights went on to general guffaws of drunken laughter, shouts of oh no, looks of relief and some of disappointment.
“Well who’s the lucky bugger then?” said Michael.
“That’s presumably for him to know and you to find out.” Lucinda sat down again after scooping up her pile of bank notes.
“Obviously not you then Michael,” said Larry adjusting his dress.
“Can we have another shot?” asked Ralph waving another twenty-pound note wildly.
“Sorry to disappoint you boys but I’ve had all I want thanks.” Lucinda licked her lips and drained her port glass.
The party came to a gradual end and everyone drifted down into the car park. Josh said his goodbyes and when it came to Lucinda kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear.
“I didn’t do anything!” Lucinda replied honestly. “I just set you up. It’s always the same. Call it my party piece. I get you men to part with your money and leave your egos and fantasies to do the rest. I just stay in my seat and it works every time. Over a hundred quid just to switch a light on and off and a lot of fun watching you boys drooling like you always do.”
Josh didn’t believe what he was hearing once again.
“But if it wasn’t?” Josh was wide-eyed and worried and left his question unfinished.
“Not me Josh. I promise you.” Lucinda kissed him goodbye.
“Great day. Thanks for having me.” Josh shook Ben by the hand in the pub car park and somewhat confused and bewildered got into his car.
“Thanks for coming,” said Ben after him. “I thought you shot rather well.”
They met at the pub in the village and sat down to a full English of ridiculous proportions with lashings of tea or coffee. The talk was the same as when any group of like minded men congregate before a sporting event. The pleasantries out the way, the hand shakes and hellos yes we met at so-and-so’s, and the slap on the backs for those that most certainly knew each other, the talk started. It usually concerned people’s dress sense.
“Bloody hell Dick. Got your wife’s trousers on again I see!” Dick liked fairly garish plus fours. He also like dressing up in his wife’s clothes but no one but him knew how near to the bone the statement was.
“Where on earth did you find that tie?” Ralph had the image of a nearly naked woman emblazoned done his tie.
“It’s the closest he’ll get to a bird all day,” said Michael, his own tie covered in birds of the sort he was hoping to start killing soon.
“Your waistcoat looks like a fucking table clothe!” Rupert was pointing at Larry’s considerable gut.
“ Well at least I made the bloody effort.” Larry was wearing a three-piece shooting suit. “You, you poor hairy arsed farmer couldn’t afford a bit of tailoring of this quality.”
“Oooww,” went the school boy noise from at least three or four of the party.
“Who’s not turned up yet?” Michael asked the day’s host.
“Lucy,” said Ben.
“Who?” said Michael and two others.
“Lucinda. ” Ben smiled as he said her name again.
“Bloody hell.” Michael expressed what several of them felt. “She’s not shooting is she?”
“Yes she is,” said Ben.
“She’s bloody dangerous,” said Michael.
“Not with a gun,” said Ben.
“I didn’t mean with a gun,” said Michael. The others sniggered.
“ Who’s she shagging currently? ” asked Larry.
“No one I know,” replied Ben.
“Fair game then,” said Ralph.
“You keep your gun in its sleeve,” said Ben. They laughed.
“She can shag me any time she likes,” said Larry making one of those clenched fist gestures men do when they are talking dirty.
Lucinda arrived looking gorgeous. Had there been a prize for the best turned out gun, she would have won it hands down. She kissed the host Ben warmly on both cheeks and did pretty much the same to Michael, Larry, Ralph, Rupert and Dick. She shook Josh by the hand.
“Very good to meet you,” she said to him and he got the impression that she really meant it.
The keeper arrived.
“Shed be wend.” He announced the stillness in the weather although to some his dialect was impossible to understand. Ben called for hush and explained the day’s rules. They were eight guns moving two. They were shooting good pheasants and partridge, no woodcock and no ground game. The keeper’s horn would sound the start and end of each drive. If any antis showed up, guns were to be put away in their sleeves and the shoot would be suspended until the police arrived.
“Be better all round if we just added them to the bag.” Michael interrupted Ben’s speech.
Enjoy your day was Ben’s final instruction before he passed around the little leather wallet from which each gun pulled a number. Who stood next to who was always a source of considerable interest, particularly today. All the men wanted to be drawn next to Lucinda.
The guns moved off from the pub in a four-wheel vehicle convoy and headed for the first drive. Lucinda was in the pound seat. She’d drawn number four and straight away she went to work killing everything out in front with the sort of precision shooting that she had become famous for. She only killed birds going away if her neighbours had already missed them. It gave her an enormous sense of satisfaction to wipe the eye of a male gun standing next to her in the line.
The day progressed as shooting days do, with some drives better than others, some shots not as accurate as others and as a result, some guns enjoying themselves more than others. The drink, swing adjuster as Ben called it, was taken after each drive from various flasks and bottles. Larry had brought champagne, which he opened and offered around after the second drive. He held the bottle of bubbly in one hand and a bottle of sloe gin in the other. Some had the two mixed into their glass.
“I call it a sloegasm.” Larry was generous with his income, good with his words.
“Haven’t had one of those,” said Lucinda when it was her turn. The men knew that she was probably not talking about the cocktail. “Important to try everything,” she added which confirmed it in their minds.
The last drive took the bag to over two hundred and Ben and the keeper were both pleased with the day. Everyone headed back to the pub where a private function room had been prepared and a big table laid for the eight shooters.
“Cracking day!” said Larry.
“Hear! Hear!” agreed Michael and they all raised a pre-meal drink as a toast to Ben.
“Thanks for the invitation Ben,” said Josh.
“It’s not over yet,” said Ben with a smile.
After the drinks the party sat down.
“I don’t care who sits where as long as I sit at this end and Lucinda sits at the other.” Ben’s instructions were obeyed and the guests sat down at the table accordingly.
The French onion soup was fine and the beef rare. The vegetables were organic and not cooked to a pulp. The wine was from Burgundy and as soon as one bottle was empty, another took its place. The conversation flowed like the drink and at times everyone seemed to be saying something and then it was just one person holding the talking stick. The late afternoon became evening and after the bread and butter pudding and with the cheese, the port arrived.
“Let’s play a game,” suggested Michael. “Let’s have a sweep on the number of drops that are left in the decanter when we think it’s empty.”
“Don’t be a silly bugger,” said Dick. “When it’s empty it’s empty.”
“No it isn’t,” declared Michael confidently with a slur. “I’ll call fifty dropssh and here’s my twenty pound note.”
Everyone put twenty pounds into the middle of the table and Michael wrote down the eight guesses. Ben elected to perform the pouring ceremony once the decanter was empty and he tipped the cut glass with his steady hands over an empty wine glass and as each drop dripped out the whole group shouted the number in boisterous unison. It was amazing. From a vessel that looked empty, the little drops of dark red liquid continued to emerge. Thirty-seven drops splashed into the wineglass, the last few with a painfully slow reluctance as though they wanted to remain embedded in the decanter forever.
Ralph was the nearest with thirty-six, his age, so he picked up the £160 from the table with much merriment all round.
“I’ve got a good game.” Lucinda’s announcement shut up the general hubbub.
“Go on,” said Ben.
“It’s called cock roulette.” Josh swallowed rather too loudly. Michael nearly choked on his drink.
Lucinda continued to explain the rules to the very captive audience.
“Every one apart from me puts twenty pounds in the kitty. The lights are turned out and the door locked. No one must utter a sound. Everyone changes seats in the dark. Every one sits down and unbuttons or unzips their fly. Everyone gets out his cock. I get under the table and select one lucky member at random and give that member a blowjob. The lucky recipient mustn’t say a word or make a sound. If he does, I stop what I’m doing and he has to pay a forfeit of double what’s on the table. Make a noise and I stop and move on to another contestant. The game is over when the job has been successfully completed without interruption and I turn the lights back on. If you don’t want to play you have to leave, after paying up forty pounds and being clucked out of the room like a chicken.”
Dick looked decidedly uncomfortable. Ralph straightened his loosened tie and chucked a twenty on to the table. Rupert coughed. Larry grinned from ear to ear. Josh thought he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Michael undid his fly and Ben sat quite relaxed at the far end of the table with a bemused smile.
“There’s only one winner of course but I get to keep all the money. Do you understand gentlemen?” No one said that they didn’t. Most just froze like rabbits caught in a headlight.
“Right. Let’s play gentlemen.” Lucinda pushed her chair back from the end of the table and got up to switch off the lights and lock the door.
The room was pitch black and once the men had stopped bumping into each other and found a new seat, an unnatural calm came over the place. Breathing, heavy breathing, was the predominant sound around the table, backed up by the occasional nervous sip taken from a drinking glass. Someone belched loudly and there was a lot of surpressed giggling.
“The game won’t start until you shut up.” Lucinda’s voice came at them like a schoolmistress through the dark.
It wasn’t that difficult to work out who was sitting in which seat and Josh found himself latched on to and sucked and blown to oblivion. He didn’t make a sound. The job done, after a few moments the lights went on to general guffaws of drunken laughter, shouts of oh no, looks of relief and some of disappointment.
“Well who’s the lucky bugger then?” said Michael.
“That’s presumably for him to know and you to find out.” Lucinda sat down again after scooping up her pile of bank notes.
“Obviously not you then Michael,” said Larry adjusting his dress.
“Can we have another shot?” asked Ralph waving another twenty-pound note wildly.
“Sorry to disappoint you boys but I’ve had all I want thanks.” Lucinda licked her lips and drained her port glass.
The party came to a gradual end and everyone drifted down into the car park. Josh said his goodbyes and when it came to Lucinda kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear.
“I didn’t do anything!” Lucinda replied honestly. “I just set you up. It’s always the same. Call it my party piece. I get you men to part with your money and leave your egos and fantasies to do the rest. I just stay in my seat and it works every time. Over a hundred quid just to switch a light on and off and a lot of fun watching you boys drooling like you always do.”
Josh didn’t believe what he was hearing once again.
“But if it wasn’t?” Josh was wide-eyed and worried and left his question unfinished.
“Not me Josh. I promise you.” Lucinda kissed him goodbye.
“Great day. Thanks for having me.” Josh shook Ben by the hand in the pub car park and somewhat confused and bewildered got into his car.
“Thanks for coming,” said Ben after him. “I thought you shot rather well.”
FLY FISHING
Wimbleball Lake in Somerset nestles like an E-shaped ink spill in a green fold marked out on Exmoor. It’s an out of the way spot for trout fisherman and fair weather sailors. On a misty Wednesday morning in mid September the party of anglers arrived to catch trout. The men, eight of them, had motored down from Bristol in three different vehicles and rendezvoused at the water’s edge. The paraphernalia needed to catch fish was unloaded from the cars and put into the four boats that each pair of fishermen would be taking out onto the water. Electric motors and their heavy batteries were vital if they didn’t want to row and none of the men did. Soft seats that clamped onto the hard wooden ones provided more comfort, as several hours would be spent just sitting, waiting. The rods, reels, boxes of flies and spools of line, the priest for whacking the caught fish on the head were all stored in canvass and leather fishing bags. The landing net, a bass and drogue, a cold box with drink, flasks filled with coffee, extra clothes and wet weather gear just in case of rain were all stowed into each boat. It looked as though the team had come prepared for anything that the lake might yield.
“What’s catching do you think?” said Tim.
“I’m going to start with a small stick fly and something with a bit of orange in it. See how I get on.” Ned was tackling up, threading two, the point fly onto the thin leader line and the other on to the dropper. He held up the orange coloured fly unhooked from his fishing waistcoat where he kept his favourites. It didn’t look like a fly you’d find in Somerset but rather an exotic insect from the jungles of South America perhaps. It was a made-up fly of course, the figment of the fly tier’s mind. Ned had killed with ones like it before. It was all guesswork to start with though. They’d have to wait and see what the fish thought, what they were going for. The flamboyance of the fly seemed to match Ned’s mood. He squinted at the job in hand. His big hands and sausage fingers didn’t look as though they could handle the precision of attaching it to the thin leader, but they did.
The team had booked and paid for the four boats and had the whole lake to them selves. It was too early for the sailing fraternity. Competition was going to be fierce but friendly.
“We’ll have caught our limit by lunch.” Tim shouted and laughed at the others as he and Ned pushed off from the floating quay where the boats had been moored. They were the first two out on the water, ready before the others and their electric motor purred into action.
“We’ll head for the far end. The bloke in the hut said they were catching there yesterday.” Tim swung the bow around and pointed it towards a concrete road bridge that crossed the lake at its northern point a quarter of a mile away.
It was grand to be out on the water again. Tim and Ned were good pals. They liked to fish together and although Tim was more experienced, Ned was perfectly competent. He could cast a good line without catching Tim in the back of the head with his hook. He wouldn’t get too many wind knots. Neither man would talk the hind leg off a donkey either. It wasn’t much fun sharing a boat with someone who couldn’t stop talking. With any luck they’d both be into some fish before too long.
The boat slapped its way through the clean dark water. The fishermen were pleased that as the mist cleared, the conditions were overcast and the wind only light. Canada geese loitered on the bank, picked over things in the mud where the water level had dropped, squabbled among them selves in ungainly fashion. Hooted at each other like a traffic jam. Two teal bobbed on the water then shot like skyrockets into the air, their wings working overtime. Cormorants trawled, their long necks like periscopes riding the lakes swell. From the boat they appeared not to have bodies, only necks and their wicked bills. The mew of a buzzard as it circled somewhere over the surrounding woodland made the men realise that they were not alone as the hunters or the hunted.
Ned dropped the anchor over the side and soon the boat took hold. Both men checked their tackle before making the first casts of the day. The reels gave out their line with a high pitched whirr and both men swung into practised action from either end of the boat. It was always satisfying to get the line straight out onto the water, to watch it shoot out, fed by the power of the rod and the human timing. Feather light, the extended line rolled onto the lake. The flies fastened to the invisible leader line plopped then swam for a moment. They slowly submerged and, weighted, gently dragged the line beneath the surface after them. Sinking and waterlogged and beautiful, their dreadful barbs were concealed beneath their man made bodies, tucked up like tails, tails with a deadly sting. They descended slowly, joined the lake, became a part of that watery world, nearly down with the weed, held to the outside by a simple knot, just a twist and turn in the nylon. Inch by inch the lines were pulled back into the boat. The flies were darting through the water, sinking and swimming below the surface, tempting the trout to strike. What arrogance it was to think the fish would take that fly! An absurd creation, a trollop on a hook, a real hooker, done up like a dog’s diner to lure the snappy trout.
The two men sat and cast. Time and time again, the lift and swish, the line peeling off the water, the flies airborne and dripping, the rod just lifted and flicked several times between ten and two on the imaginary clock face where twelve was directly overhead. Ten o’clock, two o’clock, backwards and forwards again throwing its line out, yards away, onto the lake.
“Was that a rise?” Tim thought he’d seen something, a fish breaking the surface perhaps.
“Could be.” Ned cast again, threw out a line with ease.
The take was like any other. The sudden excitement was like an electric shock. It took experience to master the reaction. The line between the catcher and the caught had to be under just the right tension. Too much and the leader would snap, too little and the fish could get off the hook. Ned’s rod bent over so that it nearly dipped into the water. Ned stood up in the boat and let out the line as quickly as he could, his reel shouting at him at the same time as Tim did.
“You’re on boy!”
Ned couldn’t keep control. His line ran out for some yards through the tip of his bent rod. Then everything went slack. The moment had gone.
“Bugger,” said Ned. “I’ve lost it.”
At the end of Ned’s line, the orange fly leapt and lunged. It had broken free without much effort and rapidly rose to the surface. Like the springing teal, it burst into the air shaking the wet droplets off its vile hairy body as it took vigorous flight. Somehow the water had given it life, had turned the finger nail sized nymph into a monster the size of the boat the men were in. The orange beast burst forth. The water boiled and both men became terrified. Their boat rocked violently but it was Ned that caught the full force of the flying insect as it came at him. He would have seen the bright orange as it dived towards him. He might have felt the awful barb as it hit him in the face, splitting his nose like a pat of blood red butter and ripping through the roof of his mouth up into his brain. He was lifted off his feet and swept up screaming into the air over Wimbleball Lake.
Ted’s boat hit the floating quay and he leapt ashore without tying up. He ran up the path to his car, abandoned everything, his face as white as the cloud in the sky behind him, his eyes as dark as the waters he’d just left. He gunned the four by four into life and took off for Bristol.
“What’s catching do you think?” said Tim.
“I’m going to start with a small stick fly and something with a bit of orange in it. See how I get on.” Ned was tackling up, threading two, the point fly onto the thin leader line and the other on to the dropper. He held up the orange coloured fly unhooked from his fishing waistcoat where he kept his favourites. It didn’t look like a fly you’d find in Somerset but rather an exotic insect from the jungles of South America perhaps. It was a made-up fly of course, the figment of the fly tier’s mind. Ned had killed with ones like it before. It was all guesswork to start with though. They’d have to wait and see what the fish thought, what they were going for. The flamboyance of the fly seemed to match Ned’s mood. He squinted at the job in hand. His big hands and sausage fingers didn’t look as though they could handle the precision of attaching it to the thin leader, but they did.
The team had booked and paid for the four boats and had the whole lake to them selves. It was too early for the sailing fraternity. Competition was going to be fierce but friendly.
“We’ll have caught our limit by lunch.” Tim shouted and laughed at the others as he and Ned pushed off from the floating quay where the boats had been moored. They were the first two out on the water, ready before the others and their electric motor purred into action.
“We’ll head for the far end. The bloke in the hut said they were catching there yesterday.” Tim swung the bow around and pointed it towards a concrete road bridge that crossed the lake at its northern point a quarter of a mile away.
It was grand to be out on the water again. Tim and Ned were good pals. They liked to fish together and although Tim was more experienced, Ned was perfectly competent. He could cast a good line without catching Tim in the back of the head with his hook. He wouldn’t get too many wind knots. Neither man would talk the hind leg off a donkey either. It wasn’t much fun sharing a boat with someone who couldn’t stop talking. With any luck they’d both be into some fish before too long.
The boat slapped its way through the clean dark water. The fishermen were pleased that as the mist cleared, the conditions were overcast and the wind only light. Canada geese loitered on the bank, picked over things in the mud where the water level had dropped, squabbled among them selves in ungainly fashion. Hooted at each other like a traffic jam. Two teal bobbed on the water then shot like skyrockets into the air, their wings working overtime. Cormorants trawled, their long necks like periscopes riding the lakes swell. From the boat they appeared not to have bodies, only necks and their wicked bills. The mew of a buzzard as it circled somewhere over the surrounding woodland made the men realise that they were not alone as the hunters or the hunted.
Ned dropped the anchor over the side and soon the boat took hold. Both men checked their tackle before making the first casts of the day. The reels gave out their line with a high pitched whirr and both men swung into practised action from either end of the boat. It was always satisfying to get the line straight out onto the water, to watch it shoot out, fed by the power of the rod and the human timing. Feather light, the extended line rolled onto the lake. The flies fastened to the invisible leader line plopped then swam for a moment. They slowly submerged and, weighted, gently dragged the line beneath the surface after them. Sinking and waterlogged and beautiful, their dreadful barbs were concealed beneath their man made bodies, tucked up like tails, tails with a deadly sting. They descended slowly, joined the lake, became a part of that watery world, nearly down with the weed, held to the outside by a simple knot, just a twist and turn in the nylon. Inch by inch the lines were pulled back into the boat. The flies were darting through the water, sinking and swimming below the surface, tempting the trout to strike. What arrogance it was to think the fish would take that fly! An absurd creation, a trollop on a hook, a real hooker, done up like a dog’s diner to lure the snappy trout.
The two men sat and cast. Time and time again, the lift and swish, the line peeling off the water, the flies airborne and dripping, the rod just lifted and flicked several times between ten and two on the imaginary clock face where twelve was directly overhead. Ten o’clock, two o’clock, backwards and forwards again throwing its line out, yards away, onto the lake.
“Was that a rise?” Tim thought he’d seen something, a fish breaking the surface perhaps.
“Could be.” Ned cast again, threw out a line with ease.
The take was like any other. The sudden excitement was like an electric shock. It took experience to master the reaction. The line between the catcher and the caught had to be under just the right tension. Too much and the leader would snap, too little and the fish could get off the hook. Ned’s rod bent over so that it nearly dipped into the water. Ned stood up in the boat and let out the line as quickly as he could, his reel shouting at him at the same time as Tim did.
“You’re on boy!”
Ned couldn’t keep control. His line ran out for some yards through the tip of his bent rod. Then everything went slack. The moment had gone.
“Bugger,” said Ned. “I’ve lost it.”
At the end of Ned’s line, the orange fly leapt and lunged. It had broken free without much effort and rapidly rose to the surface. Like the springing teal, it burst into the air shaking the wet droplets off its vile hairy body as it took vigorous flight. Somehow the water had given it life, had turned the finger nail sized nymph into a monster the size of the boat the men were in. The orange beast burst forth. The water boiled and both men became terrified. Their boat rocked violently but it was Ned that caught the full force of the flying insect as it came at him. He would have seen the bright orange as it dived towards him. He might have felt the awful barb as it hit him in the face, splitting his nose like a pat of blood red butter and ripping through the roof of his mouth up into his brain. He was lifted off his feet and swept up screaming into the air over Wimbleball Lake.
Ted’s boat hit the floating quay and he leapt ashore without tying up. He ran up the path to his car, abandoned everything, his face as white as the cloud in the sky behind him, his eyes as dark as the waters he’d just left. He gunned the four by four into life and took off for Bristol.
FLOGGING A DEAD HORSE
They lived in the cottage next door. They’d been there since they arrived from London after having retired from the Metropolitan Police. They’d bought the old village pub, the White Horse, and had changed it from a quaint old-fashioned boozer into a very popular eatery. On Sundays its carvery was crammed full with families eating what they had been given for £5.99 a head. There were always several roasts to chose from although under the bright orange glare of the hot lamps they all looked pretty much the same. The meat was always grey in colour, always overdone. Well boiled vegetables with lashings of thin brown over spiced gravy were available in the heated tin dishes once punters had been served with the meat. The tariff included a roll and butter and a portion of ice cream (assorted flavours). It was just like school dinner.
As landlord and landlady of the pub, the couple grew in statue, became an active part of the local community and seemed on the face of it to be “good sorts”. They took on a chef, also an ex London bobby, and the business prospered. Value was their unique selling proposition, that and big portions. Their advertisement in the local paper and the parish magazine boasted “Eat like a horse at the White Horse for £5.99.” Soon the pub had to do two Sunday sittings at 12 and 2 to cater for public demand. After their third year of trading they had to extend the premises so as to accommodate the increase in business. The carvery opened for business on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. It seemed to do a roaring trade at lunchtime and in the evenings. They had hit on a successful formula and without any previous experience, had created quite a major industry in the village. Competitors couldn’t work out just how they managed to out do them. Some tried to compete but quickly lost a hat full. The new owners of the White Horse prospered thanks to their winning formula.
Jean-Pierre commented on the food first of all. He was from rural France; arrived for a long weekend. He insisted on taking us out to the local for Sunday lunch, something we had so far avoided.
“The meat,” he said after a few mouthfuls. “It taste jest like orse.”
We laughed but agreed that the meat did indeed taste “different” but didn’t cause a fuss by complaining. We didn’t want to upset our neighbours after all. Our French visitor insisted on going and having a word with the chef. He in turn must have said something to our neighbours because after that, they didn’t speak another word to us. We used to be fairly civil and exchanged polite pleasantries, complimented them on the luxuriant roses in their front garden, that sort of thing.
It was a new and keen public health inspector that stumbled across their dark secret during one surprise visit to the pub’s kitchen. Most of the meat hanging up in the big freezer was horse. The rest, the smaller cuts, were dog. Further investigations revealed a dubious supply chain from London. What the good customers of the White Horse had been wolfing down with enthusiasm at £5.99 a go was in fact dead Metropolitan Police horse and over cooked German shepherd and Labrador, all past their sell by date as far as police work was concerned. .
As the judge said during his summing up before sending our neighbours down, “You can fill some of the people some of the time.” Like crooks, judges often have a way with words.
As landlord and landlady of the pub, the couple grew in statue, became an active part of the local community and seemed on the face of it to be “good sorts”. They took on a chef, also an ex London bobby, and the business prospered. Value was their unique selling proposition, that and big portions. Their advertisement in the local paper and the parish magazine boasted “Eat like a horse at the White Horse for £5.99.” Soon the pub had to do two Sunday sittings at 12 and 2 to cater for public demand. After their third year of trading they had to extend the premises so as to accommodate the increase in business. The carvery opened for business on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. It seemed to do a roaring trade at lunchtime and in the evenings. They had hit on a successful formula and without any previous experience, had created quite a major industry in the village. Competitors couldn’t work out just how they managed to out do them. Some tried to compete but quickly lost a hat full. The new owners of the White Horse prospered thanks to their winning formula.
Jean-Pierre commented on the food first of all. He was from rural France; arrived for a long weekend. He insisted on taking us out to the local for Sunday lunch, something we had so far avoided.
“The meat,” he said after a few mouthfuls. “It taste jest like orse.”
We laughed but agreed that the meat did indeed taste “different” but didn’t cause a fuss by complaining. We didn’t want to upset our neighbours after all. Our French visitor insisted on going and having a word with the chef. He in turn must have said something to our neighbours because after that, they didn’t speak another word to us. We used to be fairly civil and exchanged polite pleasantries, complimented them on the luxuriant roses in their front garden, that sort of thing.
It was a new and keen public health inspector that stumbled across their dark secret during one surprise visit to the pub’s kitchen. Most of the meat hanging up in the big freezer was horse. The rest, the smaller cuts, were dog. Further investigations revealed a dubious supply chain from London. What the good customers of the White Horse had been wolfing down with enthusiasm at £5.99 a go was in fact dead Metropolitan Police horse and over cooked German shepherd and Labrador, all past their sell by date as far as police work was concerned. .
As the judge said during his summing up before sending our neighbours down, “You can fill some of the people some of the time.” Like crooks, judges often have a way with words.
FIVE A DAY
Friday nights were special. They’d both finished work for the week and had enjoyed a bottle of Rioja with their supper. She, slumped out on the sofa, and he in the armchair opposite were both watching the Tele. There was nothing much on. A repeat of “Friends”, an episode of “ Will and Grace” and the reflection of the moving images and studio laughter flashed around their moodily lit living room while the two contemplated a weekend off.
“Mint tea?” He asked her when the commercial break appeared. “Or more wine?”
“Another glass would be nice”, she said flashing him a genuine smile and waiving the nearly empty glass towards him. He got up and went out to the kitchen returning with a newly opened bottle of Spanish red and the fruit bowl.
“Thought you might like some fruit.” He said as he topped up her glass with the wine.
“Thanks love. Maybe later.”
It was during “Desperate Housewives” that she reached down into the fruit bowl and carefully selected a banana. She peeled it completely and threw the skin across the room into the open fireplace where it lay like a giant yellow spider on the hearth. She put the exposed fruit back into the fruit bowl and then using both hands undid the top button on her jeans and wriggled out of them raising her buttocks from off the sofa. Her knickers too followed the blue denim down her legs and in a flash she lay there with nothing on her bottom half. He looked across at her with a frown and an open mouth. The television soap bounced off her smooth bare skin. Nothing said she reached for the peeled banana and slid it between her legs. She handled the fruit carefully and slowly so as not to break it and inch by white inch the peeled banana disappeared, reappeared then disappeared again. He could just make out the slight rocking motion of her hips as they rose up and down on the sofa. Her left leg, the one nearest to him, slid to the floor and her body moved and stretched as though to take in more of what ever it was on offer. The banana vanished. She raised her right hand, the one that had been guiding the banana, and bought its sticky fingers up to her mouth. Her eyes were closed, or so he thought, and she licked each finger in exaggerated turn.
Her left hand found the fruit bowl again and this time a pear appeared. He was stuck to the armchair and swallowing hard. His heart was racing unhealthily. “Desperate Housewives” had taken a back seat.
The pear was studied and with her teeth, the stalk was bitten off and spat out on to the carpet somewhere. Thin end first, the fruit was persuaded to follow the banana and bit by bit it too was encouraged into her vagina. The bulbous end of the pair took some effort but she took it in her stride, letting out a considerable moan, almost a cry, while the green fruit was being pushed in.
He was beside himself. Mightily uncomfortable with probably the biggest erection he’d ever had in his life before. He couldn’t move. Dare not. She took in some grapes, a very messy pomegranate that had been too ripe for eating and was half way through a Victoria plum when her orgasm arrived.
“I can’t stand fruit,” he said as he rushed from the room with his hands clasped over his penis.
“Fuck the governments recommendations,” he shouted coarsely.
“I do,” she said with a healthy smile.
“Mint tea?” He asked her when the commercial break appeared. “Or more wine?”
“Another glass would be nice”, she said flashing him a genuine smile and waiving the nearly empty glass towards him. He got up and went out to the kitchen returning with a newly opened bottle of Spanish red and the fruit bowl.
“Thought you might like some fruit.” He said as he topped up her glass with the wine.
“Thanks love. Maybe later.”
It was during “Desperate Housewives” that she reached down into the fruit bowl and carefully selected a banana. She peeled it completely and threw the skin across the room into the open fireplace where it lay like a giant yellow spider on the hearth. She put the exposed fruit back into the fruit bowl and then using both hands undid the top button on her jeans and wriggled out of them raising her buttocks from off the sofa. Her knickers too followed the blue denim down her legs and in a flash she lay there with nothing on her bottom half. He looked across at her with a frown and an open mouth. The television soap bounced off her smooth bare skin. Nothing said she reached for the peeled banana and slid it between her legs. She handled the fruit carefully and slowly so as not to break it and inch by white inch the peeled banana disappeared, reappeared then disappeared again. He could just make out the slight rocking motion of her hips as they rose up and down on the sofa. Her left leg, the one nearest to him, slid to the floor and her body moved and stretched as though to take in more of what ever it was on offer. The banana vanished. She raised her right hand, the one that had been guiding the banana, and bought its sticky fingers up to her mouth. Her eyes were closed, or so he thought, and she licked each finger in exaggerated turn.
Her left hand found the fruit bowl again and this time a pear appeared. He was stuck to the armchair and swallowing hard. His heart was racing unhealthily. “Desperate Housewives” had taken a back seat.
The pear was studied and with her teeth, the stalk was bitten off and spat out on to the carpet somewhere. Thin end first, the fruit was persuaded to follow the banana and bit by bit it too was encouraged into her vagina. The bulbous end of the pair took some effort but she took it in her stride, letting out a considerable moan, almost a cry, while the green fruit was being pushed in.
He was beside himself. Mightily uncomfortable with probably the biggest erection he’d ever had in his life before. He couldn’t move. Dare not. She took in some grapes, a very messy pomegranate that had been too ripe for eating and was half way through a Victoria plum when her orgasm arrived.
“I can’t stand fruit,” he said as he rushed from the room with his hands clasped over his penis.
“Fuck the governments recommendations,” he shouted coarsely.
“I do,” she said with a healthy smile.
DEAD WOOD
There’s a wood not far from where I live. It is hundreds of years old and has been preserved so that people can go and enjoy it. A camping site right next door offers somewhere to stay for those that aren’t local. A café, the “Broadleaf Tea Rooms” is where visitors can order a pot of tea and some scones or home made cakes. A small gift shop sells mementoes. Postcards and pencils, china mugs with stencils of trees on them, notepads to put by the telephone; that sort of thing. It doesn’t cost an arm and a leg to visit the place. It’s a good day out for the children, if the weather is kind, with an adventure play area and a woodland miniature railway. Father Christmas visits every December and mums and dads pay a little extra so that their excited children can climb aboard the “ Santa Express” and get a wrapped present from the old man with the badly fitting white beard.
I can walk there. It’s only about a mile away. I’m a “Friend of the Wood”. For £17 a year I can visit the wood as many times as I like. So I do. I’ve been there six or seven times over the summer and have become familiar with some of the walks through the wood. Once inside, through the main entrance and past the woman taking the money from the motorists, it is a different world. The trees make the difference. They change the light. Even on the brightest of summer’s days, the green canopy filters the sunlight so that everything melts. What had been vivid walking down the country lane to get there, becomes less so in the wood. The colours change, become muted, as though I have entered into an old leafy cathedral. Outside there was an horizon. Inside there is not. There is no real perspective, just a wall of dark green. A tree a few feet away could have been fifty yards off and one in the distance perhaps only an arms length away. Sudden clearings let the light fall in from the sky, so bright that it makes me blind. I stumble, trip over a tree root that must have become more obvious, more easily seen by those that can.
The temperature drops a degree or two. Defined paths are cut and worn through the trees where the earth is always damp and where the tree roots emerge and twist and wriggle their way breaking cover. They then dive back into the ground again. The roots try to trip up the walkers, but the paths are maintained, so the roots just lie there like petrified snakes. The smell is different too. There is the smell of death. Rotting things in the undergrowth. A dampness and a dry rot smell as well. Burst puffballs, leaf mould and fox pee. I can smell where “Charlie” has been. I remember an old gamekeeper telling me years ago, wrinkling his red-veined nose up as though the devil himself had urinated in that patch of bracken. The stillness in the wood is almost disturbing. The rustle of a grey squirrel and the squabbling of a jay cause alarm, make me jump.
At intervals there are new trees, individual young saplings, ring fenced with old timber and with little inscribed plaques. Each is dedicated to somebody. A name and a date with a few well chosen words. A tree has been planted in commemoration of someone who has died. What a nice idea I think. A permanent memorial to someone loved. I wouldn’t mind that when it comes to my turn.
When I leave the wood after my last visit I stop and ask the woman, the usual one taking the entrance money, how much it costs to plant a tree in memory of someone.
“What dear?” she says.
“Your memorial trees. The ones with the names of people on them. I think it’s such a good idea. How much do you charge for them?”
“Sorry dear,” says the woman. “We don’t have any trees like that in this wood.”
I can walk there. It’s only about a mile away. I’m a “Friend of the Wood”. For £17 a year I can visit the wood as many times as I like. So I do. I’ve been there six or seven times over the summer and have become familiar with some of the walks through the wood. Once inside, through the main entrance and past the woman taking the money from the motorists, it is a different world. The trees make the difference. They change the light. Even on the brightest of summer’s days, the green canopy filters the sunlight so that everything melts. What had been vivid walking down the country lane to get there, becomes less so in the wood. The colours change, become muted, as though I have entered into an old leafy cathedral. Outside there was an horizon. Inside there is not. There is no real perspective, just a wall of dark green. A tree a few feet away could have been fifty yards off and one in the distance perhaps only an arms length away. Sudden clearings let the light fall in from the sky, so bright that it makes me blind. I stumble, trip over a tree root that must have become more obvious, more easily seen by those that can.
The temperature drops a degree or two. Defined paths are cut and worn through the trees where the earth is always damp and where the tree roots emerge and twist and wriggle their way breaking cover. They then dive back into the ground again. The roots try to trip up the walkers, but the paths are maintained, so the roots just lie there like petrified snakes. The smell is different too. There is the smell of death. Rotting things in the undergrowth. A dampness and a dry rot smell as well. Burst puffballs, leaf mould and fox pee. I can smell where “Charlie” has been. I remember an old gamekeeper telling me years ago, wrinkling his red-veined nose up as though the devil himself had urinated in that patch of bracken. The stillness in the wood is almost disturbing. The rustle of a grey squirrel and the squabbling of a jay cause alarm, make me jump.
At intervals there are new trees, individual young saplings, ring fenced with old timber and with little inscribed plaques. Each is dedicated to somebody. A name and a date with a few well chosen words. A tree has been planted in commemoration of someone who has died. What a nice idea I think. A permanent memorial to someone loved. I wouldn’t mind that when it comes to my turn.
When I leave the wood after my last visit I stop and ask the woman, the usual one taking the entrance money, how much it costs to plant a tree in memory of someone.
“What dear?” she says.
“Your memorial trees. The ones with the names of people on them. I think it’s such a good idea. How much do you charge for them?”
“Sorry dear,” says the woman. “We don’t have any trees like that in this wood.”
BUY ONE GET ONE FREE
Shopping at the supermarket wasn’t much fun. It was a chore that had to be done but Agnes found a way to make it a little more interesting. She shopped mostly at Sainsbury’s in her local market town. It was always difficult to make ends meet but Agnes was inventive. She took the grocer’s advertising slogans literally and whilst she agreed that “Good food cost less at Sainsbury’s” when it did, she was even more delighted to be invited to “Try something new today” when the company came up with its new slogan.
Agnes got the idea from the supermarket’s own marketing campaign. Bog offs she called them. Buy one get one for free. It often happened when she was trawling the isles. She sauntered into the biscuit section and there on the shelf was a piece of point of sale that said quite clearly McVitie’s Ginger Nuts 65p. Buy 1 get 1 free. She wondered how the supermarket could afford to do it.
“How can you afford to do it?” she asked the girl on the check out.
“I don’t know dear,” was the reply. “Have you got a Nectar card?”
Agnes did have a Nectar card. The points she gathered during the year allowed her to get some more free goods at Christmas, which was a bonus. She liked the idea of being rewarded for being a regular user of the supermarket.
She first tried her idea out on a busy Saturday morning. She did her normal shop, which came to £35.70. With what they called ‘multibuys’, Agnes had saved £2.08 according to her till receipt. She wheeled her trolley out to the car park where she had found a slot easily enough behind one of the architectural trees that the planners had presumably insisted on. It was out of the way of the CCTV cameras. She unloaded her four bags of shopping into the car, replaced the trolley in the trolley park and then drove home. She unpacked the car and her shopping. She’d put the four empty plastic carrier bags she’d used for her purchases into her coat pockets. She then returned to the Sainsbury’s supermarket. The round trip didn’t take her thirty minutes. She grabbed another trolley and went back into the store. Using her till receipt as the shopping list, she carefully reloaded the trolley with everything she had bought earlier. She made sure that her original till receipt matched exactly what she took from the shelves for the second time that morning. In the magazine section where the isle was full of people browsing, she loitered too and at the same time repacked the four empty plastic bags with the goods in her trolley. This was the most risky part of the operation but no one noticed a pensioner fumbling with her purchases, then leafing through The Lady and Homes and Gardens. She then pushed the trolley back through the fruit and veg section and into the busy Café at the other side of the checkouts. She queued and bought an all day breakfast. She enjoyed the meal and read the Daily Mail. Once finished she pushed the trolley out of the store and back to her car.
No one stopped her. If they had she would have produced the till receipt with the bit on the bottom neatly taken off. She’d doctored it before returning for the second shop. The only evidence on the print out that recorded the time she bought her shopping was in the last two lines. Six groups of digits that she could easily remove with a sharp knife, just below the words that suggested “PLEASE KEEP FOR YOUR RECORDS. Published Terms and Conditions apply”. Agnes got a little thrill, an adrenaline rush, when she pushed the second trolley of the day out into the car park. She’d got away with it.
“Bog off,” she said out loud and she chuckled as she pushed her load of stolen goods unchallenged to her car.
Agnes became a shoplifter. She didn’t see it as a crime. After all, the supermarket themselves seemed willing to give away product. All Agnes was doing was extending their generous offer to cover all the goods she purchased.
Having got away with it once, Agnes embarked upon her crime spree every week. She didn’t always choose the Saturday. Some times she would use Friday and some times, when there wasn’t a service in the village church, a Sunday. She got bolder and on several occasions added bottles of wine to her two shopping trips. If she bought six, she’d get a five percent discount and, more importantly, could carry her six-bottle purchase in a handy cardboard carrier conveniently provided in the wine section.
“You’re so thoughtful,” she said to the girl on the checkout as she loaded the bottle carrier into her trolley for the first time that day.
Agnes didn’t drink, only the very occasional sherry, and she built up quite a wine cellar. She didn’t know very much about the stuff but shopped for bottles around a fiver. She always selected a variety that the supermarket had on special that week. When her purchases and the duplicate freebies started to fill up her garage, she realised that her ‘Bog off collection’ would have some value to someone who wanted several hundred bottles of wine.
Her first customer was the friend of an acquaintance. She discovered that Bertie liked a drop of wine and let it be known that she had inherited about 200 bottles from her brother who had sadly passed away. Bertie was delighted to part with his cash and at £4 a bottle; he seemed well pleased with the deal he struck with the acquaintance of his friend.
“Thank you so much,” said Bertie. “Us pensioners need all the help we can get. The cost of living today is frightful and the government doesn’t seem to care a damn.”
Bertie’s words struck a chord with Agnes. She agreed that pensioners like her weren’t at the top of the pile. She realised that her “Bog off scheme” was an earner. She lay awake at night dreaming of building a business, a mini empire even. She could see the day, not too far away, when she needn’t worry about money any longer. She fantasised about retiring to Portugal or Madeira with her friend Christine. Somewhere in the sun would be lovely. If she won the lottery that’s what she’d do. If the “Bog Off business” could take off, that’s what she’d do.
At first Agnes wasn’t sure how to really capitalise on her new business. She called it a business and realised that if it was going to grow, she’d have to involve others. Agnes had friends. There was Christine, her best friend, and her Bridge partner most Monday evenings. Elsie was a good friend too. Recently widowed, poor Elsie had taken the death of her husband rather badly. It had shaken her up so Agnes used to whip round to see her. She'd take her out for a run in the car, go and visit the garden centre or the National Trust place if the weather was kind. Winnie was another that Agnes counted as a friend. Winnie sometimes appeared rather grand but Agnes knew that Winnie was worse off financially than she was. Winnie’s husband hadn’t had a decent pension and they had had to do something about re-mortgaging their home in order to keep themselves solvent. Then there was Daisy. Daisy had been a schoolteacher, the old fashioned, no-nonsense sort, very keen on the three R’s. Daisy had retired and did a little private tuition on the side, coaching slow children for their entrance examinations. Daisy, like Agnes, had never married and like Agnes she loved bird watching.
Agnes thought about who she’d involve first. She knew that she’d find it easier to persuade her friends one at a time. She’d had experience of committees and by and large thought they didn’t work awfully well. Too much talk and not enough action. Christine was the obvious choice for first gang member and so she got on the telephone and arranged an evening when the two of them could meet up at her house.
“Come round at about six and we’ll have a glass of sherry. I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”
“How intriguing my dear. Look forward to seeing you,” was what Christine said.
The Bog Off Gang had its inaugural meeting. At first Christine looked perplexed. She actually thought that her friend had gone off her rocker. But ever so slowly like melting ice and helped in some part by the properties of the sweet sherry, she began to see that Agnes was on to something quite interesting.
“It sounds rather exciting to me,” said Christine. “And you’ve actually been getting away with it dear?”
“Most certainly.” Agnes confirmed she had for the umpteenth time.
“And there’s no way that they can catch you out?”
“No way Jose.” Agnes sounded like a Bolivian bandit.
It was agreed that the next morning Agnes would take Christine with her to the supermarket for a first hand demonstration. They travelled together and Agnes drove them to Sainsbury’s.
Christine was as nervous as a kitten.
“You’re only going to watch me dear,” said her friend by way of encouragement.
Agnes went through her paces and shopped with Christine stuck to her like glue. The two women went through the check out and Agnes paid for the shopping, £42.57 with double Nectar points on several of her buys.
“Alright to pack your own bags love?” the girl on the check out asked as a part of her customer friendly training.
“Oh thank you dear. I can manage quite well thank you.”
Agnes and Christine loaded the shopping into the car and returned home. They were back again in the supermarket twenty-two minutes later for the repeat shop. Christine seemed to be more relaxed on the second visit. Agnes couldn’t feel her hot breath this time as she selected another Greek yoghurt from the chilled section.
“All right dear?” Agnes asked her friend.
“It’s quite exciting isn’t it?” came the reply which made Agnes smile.
The second visit went like clockwork.
It was outside as the two women approached the car that the man who gathered up the stray trolleys came up to them. His florescent yellow jacket made him look like a lollypop man.
“You haven’t dropped anything ladies, have you?” he asked.
“No,” said Agnes. “I don’t think so.” Her heart was racing. She thought they’d been found out some how.
“It’s just that I found a purse over here. I’ll take it to the customer enquiry desk. Cheers love.”
Agnes continued to push her trolley to her car with Christine in nervous attendance once more.
“Excuse me ladies.” It was a security man. There was two of them standing next to the car.
“How can I help you?” said Agnes too quickly and obviously taken aback.
“We’d like you to come back with us into the store please. We have reason to believe that you are trying to leave with goods you haven’t paid for.”
“What utter nonsense,” said Agnes. “I have the receipt here somewhere.”
“That’s fine madam,” said the security man. “There may have been some mistake but if you’d come with us to the managers office, I’m sure we can clear up the matter. This way please.”
Christine was white with fear. Agnes thought for a moment that she was going to pass out.
“Come on dear.” Agnes took Christine’s arm and the two walked back from where they had just come. One security man walked in front of the group, showing the way, while the other followed pushing the trolley full of shopping. The manager’s office was through the store and out the back, through a set of big swing doors that led to the warehouse behind the shop floor. The two old ladies and their uniformed escort and the shopping trolley processed into the unglamorous world of behind the scenes at the supermarket. Parked in tight rows were big cages on wheels, jammed full with product waiting to be taken off to fill the shelves. Notices on the wall, some encouraging “Smile and your customers smile with you”, some warning, “Have you washed your hands?” and some regulation small print. The manager’s office wasn’t big. The manager was. He looked tired as he spoke to the two suspects.
“Well ladies. I’m sure you know why we’ve asked you back for a word.”
Agnes stood ramrod straight and still. Her composure was not going to be ruffled by this man.
“I simply cannot image,” she said after a suitable pause that tried to indicate she was in charge.
The manager gave a groan, which turned into a heavy sigh.
“I think we’d better call the police,” he said with a nod to the security personnel.
Christine, who’d been as white as a sheet since their apprehension, visibly jumped and started to shake like a washing machine on spin cycle.
“I thought you said you’d got away with it dear!” she shrieked at Agnes who instantly knew that on this occasion she hadn’t.
Cups of tea were offered to the two of them as they sat together in the security office waiting for the police to arrive. The hot mugs of brown liquid relaxed the two of them, made them feel at ease, quite dizzy and lulled off into a happy, soporific state, one that felt like they really wanted to drop off.
The two security men didn’t have any trouble in carrying the two old ladies, one at a time, out of the room and into the rear yard behind the building. In one corner the cardboard crusher had just finished compressing one batch into a tight bale and Agnes and her friend were carefully lifted into the machine and the green button was pressed which started the powerful hydraulic rams once again.
Agnes would probably have taken some satisfaction in coming back to that very store as part of a cardboard outer for Portuguese sardines in olive oil. Christine on the other hand wouldn’t have liked her new role as a part of the box for Sainsbury’s 85 ultra soft white tissues.
Both brands were on special that week. Buy one get one free.
Agnes got the idea from the supermarket’s own marketing campaign. Bog offs she called them. Buy one get one for free. It often happened when she was trawling the isles. She sauntered into the biscuit section and there on the shelf was a piece of point of sale that said quite clearly McVitie’s Ginger Nuts 65p. Buy 1 get 1 free. She wondered how the supermarket could afford to do it.
“How can you afford to do it?” she asked the girl on the check out.
“I don’t know dear,” was the reply. “Have you got a Nectar card?”
Agnes did have a Nectar card. The points she gathered during the year allowed her to get some more free goods at Christmas, which was a bonus. She liked the idea of being rewarded for being a regular user of the supermarket.
She first tried her idea out on a busy Saturday morning. She did her normal shop, which came to £35.70. With what they called ‘multibuys’, Agnes had saved £2.08 according to her till receipt. She wheeled her trolley out to the car park where she had found a slot easily enough behind one of the architectural trees that the planners had presumably insisted on. It was out of the way of the CCTV cameras. She unloaded her four bags of shopping into the car, replaced the trolley in the trolley park and then drove home. She unpacked the car and her shopping. She’d put the four empty plastic carrier bags she’d used for her purchases into her coat pockets. She then returned to the Sainsbury’s supermarket. The round trip didn’t take her thirty minutes. She grabbed another trolley and went back into the store. Using her till receipt as the shopping list, she carefully reloaded the trolley with everything she had bought earlier. She made sure that her original till receipt matched exactly what she took from the shelves for the second time that morning. In the magazine section where the isle was full of people browsing, she loitered too and at the same time repacked the four empty plastic bags with the goods in her trolley. This was the most risky part of the operation but no one noticed a pensioner fumbling with her purchases, then leafing through The Lady and Homes and Gardens. She then pushed the trolley back through the fruit and veg section and into the busy Café at the other side of the checkouts. She queued and bought an all day breakfast. She enjoyed the meal and read the Daily Mail. Once finished she pushed the trolley out of the store and back to her car.
No one stopped her. If they had she would have produced the till receipt with the bit on the bottom neatly taken off. She’d doctored it before returning for the second shop. The only evidence on the print out that recorded the time she bought her shopping was in the last two lines. Six groups of digits that she could easily remove with a sharp knife, just below the words that suggested “PLEASE KEEP FOR YOUR RECORDS. Published Terms and Conditions apply”. Agnes got a little thrill, an adrenaline rush, when she pushed the second trolley of the day out into the car park. She’d got away with it.
“Bog off,” she said out loud and she chuckled as she pushed her load of stolen goods unchallenged to her car.
Agnes became a shoplifter. She didn’t see it as a crime. After all, the supermarket themselves seemed willing to give away product. All Agnes was doing was extending their generous offer to cover all the goods she purchased.
Having got away with it once, Agnes embarked upon her crime spree every week. She didn’t always choose the Saturday. Some times she would use Friday and some times, when there wasn’t a service in the village church, a Sunday. She got bolder and on several occasions added bottles of wine to her two shopping trips. If she bought six, she’d get a five percent discount and, more importantly, could carry her six-bottle purchase in a handy cardboard carrier conveniently provided in the wine section.
“You’re so thoughtful,” she said to the girl on the checkout as she loaded the bottle carrier into her trolley for the first time that day.
Agnes didn’t drink, only the very occasional sherry, and she built up quite a wine cellar. She didn’t know very much about the stuff but shopped for bottles around a fiver. She always selected a variety that the supermarket had on special that week. When her purchases and the duplicate freebies started to fill up her garage, she realised that her ‘Bog off collection’ would have some value to someone who wanted several hundred bottles of wine.
Her first customer was the friend of an acquaintance. She discovered that Bertie liked a drop of wine and let it be known that she had inherited about 200 bottles from her brother who had sadly passed away. Bertie was delighted to part with his cash and at £4 a bottle; he seemed well pleased with the deal he struck with the acquaintance of his friend.
“Thank you so much,” said Bertie. “Us pensioners need all the help we can get. The cost of living today is frightful and the government doesn’t seem to care a damn.”
Bertie’s words struck a chord with Agnes. She agreed that pensioners like her weren’t at the top of the pile. She realised that her “Bog off scheme” was an earner. She lay awake at night dreaming of building a business, a mini empire even. She could see the day, not too far away, when she needn’t worry about money any longer. She fantasised about retiring to Portugal or Madeira with her friend Christine. Somewhere in the sun would be lovely. If she won the lottery that’s what she’d do. If the “Bog Off business” could take off, that’s what she’d do.
At first Agnes wasn’t sure how to really capitalise on her new business. She called it a business and realised that if it was going to grow, she’d have to involve others. Agnes had friends. There was Christine, her best friend, and her Bridge partner most Monday evenings. Elsie was a good friend too. Recently widowed, poor Elsie had taken the death of her husband rather badly. It had shaken her up so Agnes used to whip round to see her. She'd take her out for a run in the car, go and visit the garden centre or the National Trust place if the weather was kind. Winnie was another that Agnes counted as a friend. Winnie sometimes appeared rather grand but Agnes knew that Winnie was worse off financially than she was. Winnie’s husband hadn’t had a decent pension and they had had to do something about re-mortgaging their home in order to keep themselves solvent. Then there was Daisy. Daisy had been a schoolteacher, the old fashioned, no-nonsense sort, very keen on the three R’s. Daisy had retired and did a little private tuition on the side, coaching slow children for their entrance examinations. Daisy, like Agnes, had never married and like Agnes she loved bird watching.
Agnes thought about who she’d involve first. She knew that she’d find it easier to persuade her friends one at a time. She’d had experience of committees and by and large thought they didn’t work awfully well. Too much talk and not enough action. Christine was the obvious choice for first gang member and so she got on the telephone and arranged an evening when the two of them could meet up at her house.
“Come round at about six and we’ll have a glass of sherry. I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”
“How intriguing my dear. Look forward to seeing you,” was what Christine said.
The Bog Off Gang had its inaugural meeting. At first Christine looked perplexed. She actually thought that her friend had gone off her rocker. But ever so slowly like melting ice and helped in some part by the properties of the sweet sherry, she began to see that Agnes was on to something quite interesting.
“It sounds rather exciting to me,” said Christine. “And you’ve actually been getting away with it dear?”
“Most certainly.” Agnes confirmed she had for the umpteenth time.
“And there’s no way that they can catch you out?”
“No way Jose.” Agnes sounded like a Bolivian bandit.
It was agreed that the next morning Agnes would take Christine with her to the supermarket for a first hand demonstration. They travelled together and Agnes drove them to Sainsbury’s.
Christine was as nervous as a kitten.
“You’re only going to watch me dear,” said her friend by way of encouragement.
Agnes went through her paces and shopped with Christine stuck to her like glue. The two women went through the check out and Agnes paid for the shopping, £42.57 with double Nectar points on several of her buys.
“Alright to pack your own bags love?” the girl on the check out asked as a part of her customer friendly training.
“Oh thank you dear. I can manage quite well thank you.”
Agnes and Christine loaded the shopping into the car and returned home. They were back again in the supermarket twenty-two minutes later for the repeat shop. Christine seemed to be more relaxed on the second visit. Agnes couldn’t feel her hot breath this time as she selected another Greek yoghurt from the chilled section.
“All right dear?” Agnes asked her friend.
“It’s quite exciting isn’t it?” came the reply which made Agnes smile.
The second visit went like clockwork.
It was outside as the two women approached the car that the man who gathered up the stray trolleys came up to them. His florescent yellow jacket made him look like a lollypop man.
“You haven’t dropped anything ladies, have you?” he asked.
“No,” said Agnes. “I don’t think so.” Her heart was racing. She thought they’d been found out some how.
“It’s just that I found a purse over here. I’ll take it to the customer enquiry desk. Cheers love.”
Agnes continued to push her trolley to her car with Christine in nervous attendance once more.
“Excuse me ladies.” It was a security man. There was two of them standing next to the car.
“How can I help you?” said Agnes too quickly and obviously taken aback.
“We’d like you to come back with us into the store please. We have reason to believe that you are trying to leave with goods you haven’t paid for.”
“What utter nonsense,” said Agnes. “I have the receipt here somewhere.”
“That’s fine madam,” said the security man. “There may have been some mistake but if you’d come with us to the managers office, I’m sure we can clear up the matter. This way please.”
Christine was white with fear. Agnes thought for a moment that she was going to pass out.
“Come on dear.” Agnes took Christine’s arm and the two walked back from where they had just come. One security man walked in front of the group, showing the way, while the other followed pushing the trolley full of shopping. The manager’s office was through the store and out the back, through a set of big swing doors that led to the warehouse behind the shop floor. The two old ladies and their uniformed escort and the shopping trolley processed into the unglamorous world of behind the scenes at the supermarket. Parked in tight rows were big cages on wheels, jammed full with product waiting to be taken off to fill the shelves. Notices on the wall, some encouraging “Smile and your customers smile with you”, some warning, “Have you washed your hands?” and some regulation small print. The manager’s office wasn’t big. The manager was. He looked tired as he spoke to the two suspects.
“Well ladies. I’m sure you know why we’ve asked you back for a word.”
Agnes stood ramrod straight and still. Her composure was not going to be ruffled by this man.
“I simply cannot image,” she said after a suitable pause that tried to indicate she was in charge.
The manager gave a groan, which turned into a heavy sigh.
“I think we’d better call the police,” he said with a nod to the security personnel.
Christine, who’d been as white as a sheet since their apprehension, visibly jumped and started to shake like a washing machine on spin cycle.
“I thought you said you’d got away with it dear!” she shrieked at Agnes who instantly knew that on this occasion she hadn’t.
Cups of tea were offered to the two of them as they sat together in the security office waiting for the police to arrive. The hot mugs of brown liquid relaxed the two of them, made them feel at ease, quite dizzy and lulled off into a happy, soporific state, one that felt like they really wanted to drop off.
The two security men didn’t have any trouble in carrying the two old ladies, one at a time, out of the room and into the rear yard behind the building. In one corner the cardboard crusher had just finished compressing one batch into a tight bale and Agnes and her friend were carefully lifted into the machine and the green button was pressed which started the powerful hydraulic rams once again.
Agnes would probably have taken some satisfaction in coming back to that very store as part of a cardboard outer for Portuguese sardines in olive oil. Christine on the other hand wouldn’t have liked her new role as a part of the box for Sainsbury’s 85 ultra soft white tissues.
Both brands were on special that week. Buy one get one free.
BEING CRITICAL
The writers met every two months or so. They’d take it in turns to host the sessions and before each meeting, e-mails or posted photocopies criss-crossed between the five participants. The rule was that no one could submit a piece of work longer than 2,500 words. Each creative member wanted a fair crack of the whip at every meeting. Each wanted their own work appraised by the others and so the length of the piece was agreed on. Most had work in hand. Two of the group were progressing their novels and so a chapter or part of a chapter was presented for criticism. One was into short stories. One was a poet and one, struggling with a film script. So each member was given four pieces of writing to “crit” at least a week before the meeting. There were no real excuses for not having read and thought about their colleague’s work before the gathering.
Just before Christmas it was the turn of Penelope to hold the meeting at her gaff. When she got home from her work, she tidied up her sitting room, cleared the table of all its evidence of her writing. She did everything in long hand, didn’t have a computer like the others. She tipped a jumbo bag of Kettle crisps into a bowl and unscrewed a glass jar of chilli dip. She found five glasses and a bottle of Lambrusco. She hoped that some of the others might bring a bottle. Not all of them would. Justine was penniless, poorer even than Penelope. Maybe Kirsty would bring something homemade. Kirsty was like that. When she wasn’t writing she’d be turning the hedgerows into something wholesome to eat or drink. Gregory would certainly bring a bottle. It would be a half-decent red. He’d present it to Penelope with a flourish and then proceed to drink most of it himself. Duncan would be on water.
She turned on the lights to the artificial Christmas tree. The little white bulbs burst into seasonal action and Penelope briefly marvelled at the Woolworth’s creation. She wasn’t feeling Christmassy but no doubt she would nearer the time.
Seven o’clock arrived and so did Kirsty. She bustled into the flat wrapped up like Mother Nature. From an old wicker hen basket she produced a blackberry and apple pie and a bottle of Elder flower wine and a sheath of paper with the typed and written submissions from the group.
“How’s it going darling?” Kirsty kissed Penelope lightly on the lips and started to unwrap the layers that protected her from the weather and other unwanted approaches.
“Alright I suppose,” said Penelope taking the pie and the bottle off to the kitchen as though they ought to be put into quarantine. “How’s it with you?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Oh you know.” Kirsty and Penelope had been in the same group for the MA in creative writing at the University College. They’d both chosen Love Story as a context module.
“Who are we expecting this evening?” Kirsty shouted to the kitchen.
“The usual suspects I think. Justine should be here if she can cadge a lift. Duncan’s on and Gregory will be late. As always.”
“As always,” sang Kirsty in agreement as her friend reappeared.
“Would you like some of this?” Penelope brandished the Lambrusco.
“Half a glass darling. I’ve got to drive.”
Half a glass later, the others had arrived.
Justine looked like she always did. As though she didn’t have two bob to rub together. He hair was lank and lack lustre. It hadn’t seen shampoo for a week or more.
“I didn’t know what to bring.” Justine’s pathetic apology bounced off the others. Penelope and Kirsty exchanged knowing glances. Justine might be a very talented writer, but oh dear was she ever a leech.
She took off her brown parka jacket with its moulting fur collar and slung it over the back of the chair that she was going to occupy for the session. She unpacked her satchel and claimed her space on the table.
Duncan had a cold. Duncan always seemed to have a cold.
“I’m afraid I’m all bunged up. Don’t think it’s infectious though.” Penelope decided to sit as far away from him as possible just in case. Duncan took a seat at the table and from his Tesco plastic carrier bag produced his own sheath of paper and a biro, a net bag of Satsumas and a Vick nasal stick.
“Any one want one of these?” he asked waving at the things around him.
“Not over keen on the thing you’ve been sticking up your nose, but I might have a go at one of those for the vitamin C a bit later on.” said Gregory.
Gregory produced a bottle of French claret from his floppy leather brief case and handed it reluctantly to Penelope.
“Quite a good year for a Saint Emilion and rather a good Saint Emilion at that.” Gregory couldn’t wait to try it but would probably have to suffer a glass of Lambrusco before the red treat.
“So how are we all?” he asked pretty much knowing the answer.
“I’ve got a stinking cold,” said Duncan.
“Lots of it about,” said Gregory.
“And how’s the Good Life?” Gregory addressed Kirsty as he always did.
“The allotment is fine thanks Gregory,” replied Kirsty as she always did.
“And the writing Justine?” said Gregory.
“No one wants poetry.” Justine sounded gloomy.
“Nor short stories,” said Duncan with his Vick applicator stuffed up one nostril.
“Shall we crack on then?” suggested Penelope taking her place at the table and spreading her paper work out in front of her. “Who shall we do first?” she said looking around the table at the writers.
They chose Duncan’s short story because Duncan wasn’t sure if he’d be able to last the whole session.
It wasn’t one of his best. Obscure to the point of becoming muddling, everyone agreed that they all had to read through it at least twice before things became sort of clearer.
“I didn’t understand the bit about the eating disorder,” said Kirsty. “What was the point you were trying to make?”
“I agree,” said Gregory. “Doesn’t ring true having a top class chef with Bulimia.”
“I thought the idea was funny,” said Justine.
“Wasn’t supposed to be,” said Duncan. “The chef was revolted by what he had become. He could no longer stand to prepare the food for his dreadful clients so he spewed up what he tasted and added that to his dish of the day.”
“Charming,” said Penelope.
“I think it should be longer.” Justine thought out loud. “I’d like to see the character developed more. What drove him to do what he did? Why did he resort to the meat cleaver on the headwaiter? We need more background story I feel. What does anybody else think?”
“It doesn’t matter a toss what anybody else thinks,” said Duncan nasally. “It’s my story and I think it’s fine just as it is.” There was an abrupt pause.
“Right,” said Penelope gathering up the situation. “Let’s move on.”
Justine’s poem was, thought Gregory, something like Leonard Cohen might have written. He’d meant it as a compliment but Justine didn’t take it as one.
“What the fuck dew mean?” Justine scowled across the table and made Gregory feel very anxious.
“I like Leonard Cohen. Used to get very pissed listening to his stuff.” Gregory wasn’t helping himself.
“I used to cry a lot too,” said Duncan instantly making Justine hate him as well. He caught her awful gaze and rammed the Vick stick a little too firmly up his nose.
“Well I thought your poem was full of beautiful imagery and creative cunning.” Penelope attempted to pick up the pieces. “I particularly liked ‘ oft to dance in the dragons den where fearful smoke choked puffed up men’. That socked it to me, struck a chord in my psyche.”
“Yes,” piped up Kirsty eager to keep things positive. “I really liked the way you have a go at the dominant male pomposity.”
“I wasn’t.” Justine looked horrified.
“Oh,” said Kirsty. “I thought you were.”
“Well you thought wrong. I wasn’t.”
“Well I’m pleased about that.” Gregory laughed.
“Leonard pissing Cohen,” was all that Justine said as she shuffled up the papers like a newsreader at the end of the news.
Duncan peeled a satsuma.
Gregory’s film script was riddled with mistakes. Grammatical as well as factual.
“You can’t have a mobile phone going off can you? I thought the scene was supposed to be set in nineteen bloody sixty eight.” As he spoke Duncan peeled the white stringy bits from the orange segments before he slipped them into his mouth one by one.
“Yes I know. Bit of a cock up that bit. I’ll have him using a coin box. Or change the date.” Gregory had meant to edit that bit before sending it out to the others.
“I’m just not convinced by your two main characters.” Kirsty wasn’t convinced.
“I’m convinced you’re a dyke,” said Gregory crossly.
“What did you say?” said Kirsty.
“I said I’m convinced you’re a bean flicker.” Gregory was being far more direct.
“I think you better apologise for that,” said Penelope.
“Why? It’s true.”
“You’re a pompous prick!” said Justine. “But we don’t go round telling you.”
“At least pricks are useful,” said Gregory gathering up his papers and pen and stuffing them into his battered brief case. “I’m out of here. I’ll take my bottle of wine with me. You lot haven’t got an ounce of taste between you.” Gregory got up and headed into the kitchen where he retrieved his bottle.
“Good night and fuck the lot of you.” Gregory slammed the frail front door as he left and the Christmas tree lights shook with the excitement.
“Well.” said Penelope. “Who’s next?”
Kirsty’s novel was about a promiscuous love affair between an older woman and her niece and a pet Tamworth sow. The passage from a chapter that the group had been asked to ‘crit’ involved a scene where the older woman was introducing her niece to artificial insemination techniques with the pig.
Duncan was obviously extremely uncomfortable with the writing and said so.
“Who the hell’s going to read this sort of porn?” he asked.
“It’s not pornographic. It’s colourful creative prose with a hint of erotica.” Kirsty was being defensive.
“I agree,” said Penelope.
“You’d agree with anything she said,” said Justine.
“No I wouldn’t.”
“Yes you would.”
“No I wouldn’t.”
“I think Gregory was right.” Justine brought the silly banter to an end.
“Well you better follow him out then,” said Penelope.
“I think I fucking will,” said Justine scooping up her belongings and grabbing her parka. She headed for the front door, turned and shouted at Penelope. “Do you know what? You can stuff that Christmas tree right up your arse and spin on top of it like a fucking fairy until the next millennium. Good fucking night.”
For the second time the thin front door took a battering.
“I think I ought to be off,” said Duncan. “Shall I leave the satsumas?”
Penelope and Kirsty sat and looked at each other once Duncan had seen himself out.
“Well,” said Penelope at last. “Not the most successful session we’ve had.”
Kirsty burst into laughter. Penelope joined in. The two women rocked with mirth until the idea faded. The Christmas tree regained its ground as the most amusing thing in the room once again.
“Why don’t I fetch that pie you bought?”
“Good idea.”
The pie was brought to the table with a bread knife and Penelope cut into it with precision.
“Yummy,” she said after the first bite.
“What about your work? Let’s look at that shall we?” Kirsty found the relevant hand written sheets of paper on which she’d made her notes about Penelope’s writing.
“Apart from one or two minor points of poor punctuation and a couple of places where your spell check seems to have gone on the blink, I basically liked your writing Penelope.”
“You know I don’t have a spell check but thanks anyway,” said Penelope with the powdery crumbs of Kirsty’s pastry sparkling on her lips.
“There is however one problem I have.” Kirsty hadn’t finished.
“ Oh. What’s that?”
“You’ve stolen the plot.”
“What on earth do you mean?” said Penelope almost choking on Kirsty’s fruit pie.
“You’ve taken the story I was writing, the one I told you about on the course, and you’ve used it. Stolen it from me.” Kirsty was being serious.
“Don’t be so dramatic. Don’t be so damned precious. You were never going to do anything with it. Besides I’m a far better writer than you’ll ever be.” Penelope had gone too far, said too much.
“You’re a cow,” said Kirsty.
“And you’re the back end of one,” said Penelope.
“Copy cunt!” said Kirsty.
“Take that back you bitch!” yelled Penelope as she threw the rest of the blackberry and apple pie at Kirsty. It narrowly missed its intended target and stuck to the wall behind ever so briefly before crumbling to the floor.
Quick as a flash Kirsty grabbed the heavy serrated bread knife and whacked it down on the table with a frightening bang. Her sudden guillotine action caught the end of Penelope’s index finger, the one on her right hand. The amputated tip shot across the table as though it was under its own steam and flew off the edge, landing under the Christmas tree like some vile, useless and unwanted present.
-8-
The blue flashing lights from the street outside eclipsed those from Woolworth’s strung on the tree. They had a more dramatic urgency, a critical purpose. They weren’t hanging around like decorations, a festive flash in the pan for a few weeks every year. The blue and white light glistened off the blood red graffiti dribbled and smeared across the sheets of paper scattered over the table and on the floor of the empty flat. Under the red trail, almost running through it, the ironic hand written words on one of Penelope’s pages, ‘ the finger writes and having written, moves on.’
-8-
Penelope’s New Year’s resolution was to learn to type. She decided she didn’t need ‘crit’ sessions any more. She’d get on just fine without them.
Just before Christmas it was the turn of Penelope to hold the meeting at her gaff. When she got home from her work, she tidied up her sitting room, cleared the table of all its evidence of her writing. She did everything in long hand, didn’t have a computer like the others. She tipped a jumbo bag of Kettle crisps into a bowl and unscrewed a glass jar of chilli dip. She found five glasses and a bottle of Lambrusco. She hoped that some of the others might bring a bottle. Not all of them would. Justine was penniless, poorer even than Penelope. Maybe Kirsty would bring something homemade. Kirsty was like that. When she wasn’t writing she’d be turning the hedgerows into something wholesome to eat or drink. Gregory would certainly bring a bottle. It would be a half-decent red. He’d present it to Penelope with a flourish and then proceed to drink most of it himself. Duncan would be on water.
She turned on the lights to the artificial Christmas tree. The little white bulbs burst into seasonal action and Penelope briefly marvelled at the Woolworth’s creation. She wasn’t feeling Christmassy but no doubt she would nearer the time.
Seven o’clock arrived and so did Kirsty. She bustled into the flat wrapped up like Mother Nature. From an old wicker hen basket she produced a blackberry and apple pie and a bottle of Elder flower wine and a sheath of paper with the typed and written submissions from the group.
“How’s it going darling?” Kirsty kissed Penelope lightly on the lips and started to unwrap the layers that protected her from the weather and other unwanted approaches.
“Alright I suppose,” said Penelope taking the pie and the bottle off to the kitchen as though they ought to be put into quarantine. “How’s it with you?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Oh you know.” Kirsty and Penelope had been in the same group for the MA in creative writing at the University College. They’d both chosen Love Story as a context module.
“Who are we expecting this evening?” Kirsty shouted to the kitchen.
“The usual suspects I think. Justine should be here if she can cadge a lift. Duncan’s on and Gregory will be late. As always.”
“As always,” sang Kirsty in agreement as her friend reappeared.
“Would you like some of this?” Penelope brandished the Lambrusco.
“Half a glass darling. I’ve got to drive.”
Half a glass later, the others had arrived.
Justine looked like she always did. As though she didn’t have two bob to rub together. He hair was lank and lack lustre. It hadn’t seen shampoo for a week or more.
“I didn’t know what to bring.” Justine’s pathetic apology bounced off the others. Penelope and Kirsty exchanged knowing glances. Justine might be a very talented writer, but oh dear was she ever a leech.
She took off her brown parka jacket with its moulting fur collar and slung it over the back of the chair that she was going to occupy for the session. She unpacked her satchel and claimed her space on the table.
Duncan had a cold. Duncan always seemed to have a cold.
“I’m afraid I’m all bunged up. Don’t think it’s infectious though.” Penelope decided to sit as far away from him as possible just in case. Duncan took a seat at the table and from his Tesco plastic carrier bag produced his own sheath of paper and a biro, a net bag of Satsumas and a Vick nasal stick.
“Any one want one of these?” he asked waving at the things around him.
“Not over keen on the thing you’ve been sticking up your nose, but I might have a go at one of those for the vitamin C a bit later on.” said Gregory.
Gregory produced a bottle of French claret from his floppy leather brief case and handed it reluctantly to Penelope.
“Quite a good year for a Saint Emilion and rather a good Saint Emilion at that.” Gregory couldn’t wait to try it but would probably have to suffer a glass of Lambrusco before the red treat.
“So how are we all?” he asked pretty much knowing the answer.
“I’ve got a stinking cold,” said Duncan.
“Lots of it about,” said Gregory.
“And how’s the Good Life?” Gregory addressed Kirsty as he always did.
“The allotment is fine thanks Gregory,” replied Kirsty as she always did.
“And the writing Justine?” said Gregory.
“No one wants poetry.” Justine sounded gloomy.
“Nor short stories,” said Duncan with his Vick applicator stuffed up one nostril.
“Shall we crack on then?” suggested Penelope taking her place at the table and spreading her paper work out in front of her. “Who shall we do first?” she said looking around the table at the writers.
They chose Duncan’s short story because Duncan wasn’t sure if he’d be able to last the whole session.
It wasn’t one of his best. Obscure to the point of becoming muddling, everyone agreed that they all had to read through it at least twice before things became sort of clearer.
“I didn’t understand the bit about the eating disorder,” said Kirsty. “What was the point you were trying to make?”
“I agree,” said Gregory. “Doesn’t ring true having a top class chef with Bulimia.”
“I thought the idea was funny,” said Justine.
“Wasn’t supposed to be,” said Duncan. “The chef was revolted by what he had become. He could no longer stand to prepare the food for his dreadful clients so he spewed up what he tasted and added that to his dish of the day.”
“Charming,” said Penelope.
“I think it should be longer.” Justine thought out loud. “I’d like to see the character developed more. What drove him to do what he did? Why did he resort to the meat cleaver on the headwaiter? We need more background story I feel. What does anybody else think?”
“It doesn’t matter a toss what anybody else thinks,” said Duncan nasally. “It’s my story and I think it’s fine just as it is.” There was an abrupt pause.
“Right,” said Penelope gathering up the situation. “Let’s move on.”
Justine’s poem was, thought Gregory, something like Leonard Cohen might have written. He’d meant it as a compliment but Justine didn’t take it as one.
“What the fuck dew mean?” Justine scowled across the table and made Gregory feel very anxious.
“I like Leonard Cohen. Used to get very pissed listening to his stuff.” Gregory wasn’t helping himself.
“I used to cry a lot too,” said Duncan instantly making Justine hate him as well. He caught her awful gaze and rammed the Vick stick a little too firmly up his nose.
“Well I thought your poem was full of beautiful imagery and creative cunning.” Penelope attempted to pick up the pieces. “I particularly liked ‘ oft to dance in the dragons den where fearful smoke choked puffed up men’. That socked it to me, struck a chord in my psyche.”
“Yes,” piped up Kirsty eager to keep things positive. “I really liked the way you have a go at the dominant male pomposity.”
“I wasn’t.” Justine looked horrified.
“Oh,” said Kirsty. “I thought you were.”
“Well you thought wrong. I wasn’t.”
“Well I’m pleased about that.” Gregory laughed.
“Leonard pissing Cohen,” was all that Justine said as she shuffled up the papers like a newsreader at the end of the news.
Duncan peeled a satsuma.
Gregory’s film script was riddled with mistakes. Grammatical as well as factual.
“You can’t have a mobile phone going off can you? I thought the scene was supposed to be set in nineteen bloody sixty eight.” As he spoke Duncan peeled the white stringy bits from the orange segments before he slipped them into his mouth one by one.
“Yes I know. Bit of a cock up that bit. I’ll have him using a coin box. Or change the date.” Gregory had meant to edit that bit before sending it out to the others.
“I’m just not convinced by your two main characters.” Kirsty wasn’t convinced.
“I’m convinced you’re a dyke,” said Gregory crossly.
“What did you say?” said Kirsty.
“I said I’m convinced you’re a bean flicker.” Gregory was being far more direct.
“I think you better apologise for that,” said Penelope.
“Why? It’s true.”
“You’re a pompous prick!” said Justine. “But we don’t go round telling you.”
“At least pricks are useful,” said Gregory gathering up his papers and pen and stuffing them into his battered brief case. “I’m out of here. I’ll take my bottle of wine with me. You lot haven’t got an ounce of taste between you.” Gregory got up and headed into the kitchen where he retrieved his bottle.
“Good night and fuck the lot of you.” Gregory slammed the frail front door as he left and the Christmas tree lights shook with the excitement.
“Well.” said Penelope. “Who’s next?”
Kirsty’s novel was about a promiscuous love affair between an older woman and her niece and a pet Tamworth sow. The passage from a chapter that the group had been asked to ‘crit’ involved a scene where the older woman was introducing her niece to artificial insemination techniques with the pig.
Duncan was obviously extremely uncomfortable with the writing and said so.
“Who the hell’s going to read this sort of porn?” he asked.
“It’s not pornographic. It’s colourful creative prose with a hint of erotica.” Kirsty was being defensive.
“I agree,” said Penelope.
“You’d agree with anything she said,” said Justine.
“No I wouldn’t.”
“Yes you would.”
“No I wouldn’t.”
“I think Gregory was right.” Justine brought the silly banter to an end.
“Well you better follow him out then,” said Penelope.
“I think I fucking will,” said Justine scooping up her belongings and grabbing her parka. She headed for the front door, turned and shouted at Penelope. “Do you know what? You can stuff that Christmas tree right up your arse and spin on top of it like a fucking fairy until the next millennium. Good fucking night.”
For the second time the thin front door took a battering.
“I think I ought to be off,” said Duncan. “Shall I leave the satsumas?”
Penelope and Kirsty sat and looked at each other once Duncan had seen himself out.
“Well,” said Penelope at last. “Not the most successful session we’ve had.”
Kirsty burst into laughter. Penelope joined in. The two women rocked with mirth until the idea faded. The Christmas tree regained its ground as the most amusing thing in the room once again.
“Why don’t I fetch that pie you bought?”
“Good idea.”
The pie was brought to the table with a bread knife and Penelope cut into it with precision.
“Yummy,” she said after the first bite.
“What about your work? Let’s look at that shall we?” Kirsty found the relevant hand written sheets of paper on which she’d made her notes about Penelope’s writing.
“Apart from one or two minor points of poor punctuation and a couple of places where your spell check seems to have gone on the blink, I basically liked your writing Penelope.”
“You know I don’t have a spell check but thanks anyway,” said Penelope with the powdery crumbs of Kirsty’s pastry sparkling on her lips.
“There is however one problem I have.” Kirsty hadn’t finished.
“ Oh. What’s that?”
“You’ve stolen the plot.”
“What on earth do you mean?” said Penelope almost choking on Kirsty’s fruit pie.
“You’ve taken the story I was writing, the one I told you about on the course, and you’ve used it. Stolen it from me.” Kirsty was being serious.
“Don’t be so dramatic. Don’t be so damned precious. You were never going to do anything with it. Besides I’m a far better writer than you’ll ever be.” Penelope had gone too far, said too much.
“You’re a cow,” said Kirsty.
“And you’re the back end of one,” said Penelope.
“Copy cunt!” said Kirsty.
“Take that back you bitch!” yelled Penelope as she threw the rest of the blackberry and apple pie at Kirsty. It narrowly missed its intended target and stuck to the wall behind ever so briefly before crumbling to the floor.
Quick as a flash Kirsty grabbed the heavy serrated bread knife and whacked it down on the table with a frightening bang. Her sudden guillotine action caught the end of Penelope’s index finger, the one on her right hand. The amputated tip shot across the table as though it was under its own steam and flew off the edge, landing under the Christmas tree like some vile, useless and unwanted present.
-8-
The blue flashing lights from the street outside eclipsed those from Woolworth’s strung on the tree. They had a more dramatic urgency, a critical purpose. They weren’t hanging around like decorations, a festive flash in the pan for a few weeks every year. The blue and white light glistened off the blood red graffiti dribbled and smeared across the sheets of paper scattered over the table and on the floor of the empty flat. Under the red trail, almost running through it, the ironic hand written words on one of Penelope’s pages, ‘ the finger writes and having written, moves on.’
-8-
Penelope’s New Year’s resolution was to learn to type. She decided she didn’t need ‘crit’ sessions any more. She’d get on just fine without them.
ABBOTT'S BITTER
There was fierce competition for the pub. A property company had brought the big old place hoping to turn it into housing but their plans had been opposed by the locals, some not without influence with the planning officer. It was a Grade 11 listed building right in the middle of the village and only a few miles from the centre of Bath. It was a rambling place with six letable bedrooms and room to create more; space for a fifty cover restaurant and the kitchen to match, a large car park and the “beer garden.”
Rather than sell it, the property company decided to find a good tenant for the place. They wanted their new tenant to turn the old fashioned country pub into something a bit special so placed the job in the hands of a couple of local agents. During the search for new incumbents, the business ticked over with a relief landlord and his wife just about satisfying the meagre local needs. It was what could be called “a drinker’s pub” with good ale and cider, spirits if required and a bar snack menu with things like chicken and chips or ploughmen’s with the butter served up in mini sized sachets so that customers were always asking for more butter please. The owners had visions of increasing the turn over from £200,00 a year to more like £800,000. They wanted somebody with flair to turn the place from “ a bed and breakfast pub with grub” into “a gastro-pub with style and comfortable bedrooms.” The property company was looking for somebody with money to invest in a serious makeover for the place. Low “key money” proposed at £40,000 and an annual rental of 10% of turnover and a twenty-four year lease made the place quite an attractive proposition. Even in times when more pubs were closing down than opening up, the Drover’s Inn was an opportunity for someone with a bit of flair and hard work to turn a very useful shilling. The agents had plenty of interest and a short list was drawn up of those thought to be most suitable candidates.
The Abbott’s had set their hearts on getting the place. It had long been their ambition to find a run down pub and turn it into a place people would want to visit, a place where good food sat easily along side warm hospitality. The Abbott’s could do it. Their enthusiasm and personal good taste would more than make up for their lack of experience. They were an outgoing couple with a wide circle of friends, all of whom would certainly patronise their new venture. The fact that Mr Abbott worked for a brewery must be to their advantage. They planned what they would do with the Drover’s Inn, how they would changed the décor, extend the bar, completely refurbish the bedrooms, gut and replace the kitchen and restyle the beer garden. They drew up their elaborate plans and went to see their bank manager who agreed that he’d lend them the money, £200,000, provided that they could give a personal guarantee and their property as security against the loan. The Abbott’s didn’t mind that in the slightest. They were keen as mustard and spent every hour planning what they would do. They prepared menus and selected fine wines for the new list. They planned a launch party, decided who they’d invite. They talked about the chef they were going to take on. Someone recommended one who was very good and they went to see him and offered him the job at £30,000 a year with accommodation of course. The talked to an architect and got him to do some preliminary drawings of the proposed changes. They went to their accountant and with him prepared the financial models that showed them and the bank manager and the property company that they could make a profitable go of it. They kept their wage bill at less than 22% of turnover, their GP averaged 60% and even if it dipped to below 55%, the bottom line still looked good. They prepared a very professional presentation to the agents and the property company, a ten paged document with lots of words, figure and images that would reassure the landlord’s that the Abbott’s were absolutely idea candidates for the business.
It went right to the wire. Second interviews were arranged and the Abbott’s found themselves in the last two. They didn’t sleep much the night before the final interview. They had put everything they could into getting the deal. The property company couldn’t decide right away and the agents were divided about who should get the lease. After re-appraising everything they had heard and seen a decision had to be made and phone calls made.
“We’re very pleased to be able to tell you that you’ve got the lease for the Drover’s Inn. There’s a letter in the post confirming the detail.” The agent’s PA told an excited Mr Abbott on the phone on the Thursday night. The Abbott’s were as chuffed as nuts. They celebrated by opening on of Mr Abbott’s fine old wines, went to bed as pleased as punch and made love like they hadn’t for several months. The following morning Mr Abbott quit his job as a senior manager at the brewery. They met for lunch at the Priory, Bath’s finest and splashed out.
“Maybe one day, our place will have a reputation like this.” Mrs Abbott whispered to her husband over coffee.
On Monday morning the post arrived and with it a letter from the property company as promised. The Abbott’s could tell it was from them by the slogan on the outside of the envelope “ putting property & people first.” Mr Abbott opened the white envelope more as a formality than anything else that evening. They both knew what would be typed inside. Or thought they did.
It was a very close call but the other contender just had the edge because of his relevant experience. The Abbott’s were dumfounded. They simply couldn’t believe their eyes. There must be some mistake, some awful cock up. After all that, they hadn’t been given the Drover’s Inn to run as their own or had they? What the hell was going on?
“But the agent?” said Mrs Abbott to her bewildered husband.
Mr Abbott was on the telephone to the agent first thing on Tuesday morning.
“I am so sorry Mr Abbott,” said the agent. “It seems that there must have been an administrative error and we telephoned you last Friday and mistakenly gave you the wrong news. The letter you received is correct.”
There was absolutely nothing that the Abbott’s could do about it. They wrote a letter to the agent with a copy to the property company expressing their displeasure and demanding some recompense. They never received a reply. They rang a lawyer friend but he said that in his opinion basically mistakes like those were unfortunate but not worth going to law over.
The Abbott’s brooded over their misfortune. Mr Abbott tried unsuccessfully to get his job back, had to work out his notice then leave as planned.
When the new successful applicant took over the pub and pulled his first pint, nearly all the men that joined him that evening including the directors of the property company and their agents ended up in hospital having their stomach’s pumped. Most were OK, but three died from the poison that had been put into the barrels of beer that in truth should have been named Abbott’s bitter.
Rather than sell it, the property company decided to find a good tenant for the place. They wanted their new tenant to turn the old fashioned country pub into something a bit special so placed the job in the hands of a couple of local agents. During the search for new incumbents, the business ticked over with a relief landlord and his wife just about satisfying the meagre local needs. It was what could be called “a drinker’s pub” with good ale and cider, spirits if required and a bar snack menu with things like chicken and chips or ploughmen’s with the butter served up in mini sized sachets so that customers were always asking for more butter please. The owners had visions of increasing the turn over from £200,00 a year to more like £800,000. They wanted somebody with flair to turn the place from “ a bed and breakfast pub with grub” into “a gastro-pub with style and comfortable bedrooms.” The property company was looking for somebody with money to invest in a serious makeover for the place. Low “key money” proposed at £40,000 and an annual rental of 10% of turnover and a twenty-four year lease made the place quite an attractive proposition. Even in times when more pubs were closing down than opening up, the Drover’s Inn was an opportunity for someone with a bit of flair and hard work to turn a very useful shilling. The agents had plenty of interest and a short list was drawn up of those thought to be most suitable candidates.
The Abbott’s had set their hearts on getting the place. It had long been their ambition to find a run down pub and turn it into a place people would want to visit, a place where good food sat easily along side warm hospitality. The Abbott’s could do it. Their enthusiasm and personal good taste would more than make up for their lack of experience. They were an outgoing couple with a wide circle of friends, all of whom would certainly patronise their new venture. The fact that Mr Abbott worked for a brewery must be to their advantage. They planned what they would do with the Drover’s Inn, how they would changed the décor, extend the bar, completely refurbish the bedrooms, gut and replace the kitchen and restyle the beer garden. They drew up their elaborate plans and went to see their bank manager who agreed that he’d lend them the money, £200,000, provided that they could give a personal guarantee and their property as security against the loan. The Abbott’s didn’t mind that in the slightest. They were keen as mustard and spent every hour planning what they would do. They prepared menus and selected fine wines for the new list. They planned a launch party, decided who they’d invite. They talked about the chef they were going to take on. Someone recommended one who was very good and they went to see him and offered him the job at £30,000 a year with accommodation of course. The talked to an architect and got him to do some preliminary drawings of the proposed changes. They went to their accountant and with him prepared the financial models that showed them and the bank manager and the property company that they could make a profitable go of it. They kept their wage bill at less than 22% of turnover, their GP averaged 60% and even if it dipped to below 55%, the bottom line still looked good. They prepared a very professional presentation to the agents and the property company, a ten paged document with lots of words, figure and images that would reassure the landlord’s that the Abbott’s were absolutely idea candidates for the business.
It went right to the wire. Second interviews were arranged and the Abbott’s found themselves in the last two. They didn’t sleep much the night before the final interview. They had put everything they could into getting the deal. The property company couldn’t decide right away and the agents were divided about who should get the lease. After re-appraising everything they had heard and seen a decision had to be made and phone calls made.
“We’re very pleased to be able to tell you that you’ve got the lease for the Drover’s Inn. There’s a letter in the post confirming the detail.” The agent’s PA told an excited Mr Abbott on the phone on the Thursday night. The Abbott’s were as chuffed as nuts. They celebrated by opening on of Mr Abbott’s fine old wines, went to bed as pleased as punch and made love like they hadn’t for several months. The following morning Mr Abbott quit his job as a senior manager at the brewery. They met for lunch at the Priory, Bath’s finest and splashed out.
“Maybe one day, our place will have a reputation like this.” Mrs Abbott whispered to her husband over coffee.
On Monday morning the post arrived and with it a letter from the property company as promised. The Abbott’s could tell it was from them by the slogan on the outside of the envelope “ putting property & people first.” Mr Abbott opened the white envelope more as a formality than anything else that evening. They both knew what would be typed inside. Or thought they did.
It was a very close call but the other contender just had the edge because of his relevant experience. The Abbott’s were dumfounded. They simply couldn’t believe their eyes. There must be some mistake, some awful cock up. After all that, they hadn’t been given the Drover’s Inn to run as their own or had they? What the hell was going on?
“But the agent?” said Mrs Abbott to her bewildered husband.
Mr Abbott was on the telephone to the agent first thing on Tuesday morning.
“I am so sorry Mr Abbott,” said the agent. “It seems that there must have been an administrative error and we telephoned you last Friday and mistakenly gave you the wrong news. The letter you received is correct.”
There was absolutely nothing that the Abbott’s could do about it. They wrote a letter to the agent with a copy to the property company expressing their displeasure and demanding some recompense. They never received a reply. They rang a lawyer friend but he said that in his opinion basically mistakes like those were unfortunate but not worth going to law over.
The Abbott’s brooded over their misfortune. Mr Abbott tried unsuccessfully to get his job back, had to work out his notice then leave as planned.
When the new successful applicant took over the pub and pulled his first pint, nearly all the men that joined him that evening including the directors of the property company and their agents ended up in hospital having their stomach’s pumped. Most were OK, but three died from the poison that had been put into the barrels of beer that in truth should have been named Abbott’s bitter.
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