“You owe him one,” I agreed, swiping through a considerable collection of images. “Maybe you should get him something.”
“Like what?”
“Halloween’s coming up.”
“What makes you think he’s into Halloween?”
“Call it a hunch.”
“But I wouldn’t know what to get him.”
“Does he have someone special in his life?”
“Not since he killed all the members of his church group, no.”
“Any hobbies?”
“Skulking among the shadows.”
“I mean, besides that.”
“Photography, I suppose.”
“Then why not get him some lens wipes?”
“I’m sure we can do better than lens wipes,” Laverne frowned.
“Alright, let’s keep going then… would it be fair to describe him as outdoorsy?“
“Yes! And now that I think of it, he could do with a decent winter coat,” she suddenly brightened.
“My neighbours are in a cult if you’re looking for something with a hood.”
“I’ll get back to you on that.”
“Did I mention it’s detachable?”
“It’s just… I don’t want to cause offence.”
“To someone who’s photographing you through your fence,” I felt obliged to remind her.
“I see where you’re coming from.”
“Didn’t he once write that on a CookieGram?”
“Right before I reversed over him in the driveway.”
“Putting all that to one side, what were you doing running naked through the forest at 3am?”
“The dog let the cat out again,” Laverne chuckled. “They’re worse than kids, those two. I should have gotten a fish tank instead. Anyway, enough about me; what’s new with you?”
“I’ve decided I want to give back to society.”
“Oh, God…”
“Now, I know what you’re thinking but this time I’m serious. I’m going to make these next twelve months my My Year of Philanthropy.”
“Well, you’re on your own then because no one’s getting any of my money,” Laverne sniffed.
“I don’t need money; what I need is a project.”
“Why not just join a gym like everyone else?”
“Because until just now I wasn’t aware that I needed to.”
“I’m just thinking back to the incident in the park.”
“That dog should have been leashed.”
“John, you wrestled it for a Tootsie Roll.”
“Which I’d bought.”
“Which you’d dropped.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, there’s a recession on,” I pointed out, dignity still intact.
“Okay. Forget I even mentioned it.”
“Easier said than done.”
“It doesn’t even matter because you’re nice on the inside and that’s what counts. When I was growing up there was a fat family on our street and they were really nice too.”
“Name them. All of them.”
“The dog was called Cupcake, I remember that much.”
“Keep going.”
“My point is, they were just like everyone else.”
“Just not worth knowing,” I addressed the elephant in the room.
“You have the rear molars of a hyena. I’ve watched you crush femurs like they were toothpicks.”
“That’s an exaggeration.”
“No, it isn’t. I’ve seen cleaner kills on Animal Planet.”
“Speaking of which, did you catch it on Monday? It was about these sharks that sleep. I think they were in Mexico. I have never, ever heard of sharks sleeping before.”
“That’s because they don’t,” I was informed.
“Sharks don’t sleep?”
“Nope.”
“Then what were these ones doing?”
“During ratings week they whack a few in the head to make them appear cute and cuddly.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m afraid not,” Laverne shook her head in dismay.
“But that’s barbaric.”
“So is seeing a camera-woman being bitten in half during a live feed. The only thing those sharks were sleeping off was a Grade 3 concussion.”
“Is that what happens on Love Island?”
“Totally different.”
“How so?”
“They’re all brain-damaged to begin with.”
“How do you know so much about concussed sharks?” I was curious.
“I was going to be a marine biologist but back then they didn’t allow women in the Marines.”
“Trump’s building a Death Star,” Laverne announced whilst reloading. “Good for him.” “For building a Death Star?” “For keeping busy during lockdown.” “Is it a family affair?” “He’ll fly it and Melania’s going to serve the drinks. “I imagine there’ll be a launch…” “By invitation only in the Space Force Lounge at Mar-A-Lago Int’l Airport.” “Tickets won’t be cheap.” “You could just buy a hat.” “There’s a Space Force hat?” “And a ring.” “How do you know all this?” I was amazed. “Forewarned is forearmed,” Laverne replied coolly, smelling the air. “They’re coming for us, so you and me need a plan.” “Two tickets?” “One-way.” “I just have one question.” “Shoot.” “Why are you firing anchovies into that tree with a catapult?” “Because the squirrel currently residing in it ripped open our garbage bags during the night and left a putrid mess for me to clean up this morning.” “And?” “Two can play that game, my friend. Now get me Mar-a-Lago on the blower because he’s going to need a Rear Gunner.”
My mother was a medical professional who worked long hours. When she came home in the evenings her day didn’t end there because she would then make supper, help us with our homework, do laundry, iron, wait up for my father to return home from work, etc. It wasn’t until I was older that I realised just how tired and rushed she must have felt every time she walked through our front door.
One evening in particular when my twin brother and I were still quite young, my mother put us to bed and then changed out of her hospital whites into a pair of navy blue slacks and an old, floppy blouse. She next washed her hair and wrapped it in a towel before heading back downstairs to see to our older siblings and a waiting pile of dirty dishes. Paul and I, however, had no plans to go to sleep as we whooped and hollered while swinging from our bunk beds like a pair of baby chimps. My mother, up to her elbows in suds, issued a few verbal warnings from the kitchen but we took no notice.
This proved a fatal error on our part.
Tired, hungry and now angry, Mum had had enough. Storming upstairs she banged open the door to our bedroom and let us have it with both barrels, issuing threat after threat until the blood drained from our faces. Convinced the message had finally gotten through, she turned to leave and as she did she overheard a small voice tentatively ask, “Who was that?”
Unaware our mother had transformed herself from Florence Nightingale to Carmen Miranda since putting us to bed, my brother and I thought a mad woman had broken into our home and killed everyone before coming upstairs to wrap up any loose ends. Now realising the situation, Mum wasn’t struggling to contain her anger but her laughter. After a couple of deep breaths to stop the giggles she re-entered our bedroom, flicked on the light and removed the towel to reveal her true identity.
I still smile every time I picture her sitting on the bottom bunk, unravelling the sequence of events to two traumatised toddlers.
And I have to admire her for that.
Because I would have kept walking, then explained over breakfast that the mad intruder actually lived in our cellar and only came upstairs when wakened…
Every evening after dinner my dogs, Gizmo and Spark, take me for a walk. On our way to the park the pair regularly drops in on our elderly neighbours who, in most cases, once had dogs of their own. One in particular, Old Ed, is especially fond of Gizmo who himself is knocking on 17 years. The two have a bond and Ed discusses everything with his loyal friend, from his time in the National Service to the state of the NHS.
During one visit in particular we had time to spare and happily sat down to watch Crime Watch UK, one of Ed’s favourite TV programmes. Ed is 89 years old but not without his faculties and he considers it his civic duty to keep watch over the neighbourhood.
“It’s the old dears we need to look out for,” he said. “They’re soft targets.”
“And who’s looking out for you?” I asked.
“Gizmo.”
That evening’s episode included a re-enactment of a homicide which had taken place in the shires. Like all re-enactments, the viewers were first introduced to the characters and setting to make its treatment of the crime less clinical and more personal. The victim in question was an elderly farmer. His last day on earth portrayed him as a hard-working, decent sort who was fair in his dealings with others. The narrator set the scene:
John Brown began his day like any other, checking his crops in the fields. For him, as for every other farmer in the county, rabbits proved a perennial pest because he grew their favourite food: carrots. Every morning, shotgun slung over his shoulder, he’d shoot as many as twenty before breakfast.
“Vermin,” Ed told Gizmo, who hung on his every word although deaf as a post.
After a long day’s work, John Brown drove his tractor into an outbuilding and locked it shut. He then checked on his cows and hens a final time before heading into the farmhouse.
“Cows and chickens make okay intruder alarms but he should have had a few geese as well. They’re the best,” Ed informed me.
“Why’s that?”
“They’re skittish.Geese’ll wake the dead.”
“They haven’t mentioned his family so I’m guessing he might be a widower,” I ventured.
“They didn’t say. But where are the sons?”
“Maybe they didn’t choose that life.”
“It’s the best life for a person,” Ed was staring ahead at nothing in particular. “Fresh air, proper food, hard work…”
The narrator went on to describe what police believe happened next. Apparently, at some point during the night one or more intruders broke into the farmhouse. From what they could gather, the intruder(s) found John Brown’s shotgun by the door. Whether it was because he heard them or not, John Brown came downstairs and was confronted by the intruder(s) who killed him with his own shotgun.
Nothing of value was takenas far as police can tell. John Brown had no known enemies and it’s suspected it might have been a burglary which went horribly wrong.
“Poor bugger,” Ed stroked Gizmo behind the ears. “And by his own gun.”
“Maybe he screwed someone over,” I weighed the evidence. “Maybe he owed them money. Farmers are always juggling massive debts.”
“It wouldn’t be that.”
“Maybe developers wanted the land and he wouldn’t sell.”
“Nope, that’s not it.”
“Okay, last one,” I racked my brain. “Maybe he does have a son but they’re estranged and the son came to claim what he believed to be his birthright.”
“Not even close,” Ed looked out the window. “Think about it.”
I was flummoxed, but moreover, I was intrigued by his self-assuredness in the matter. I had apparently missed a vital clue which was the clincher. Now watching him savour the moment without any smugness whatsoever I was proud of Ed. He’d seen more in his lifetime than I ever would: The Great Depression, WW2, the draft, rationing, The Cold War and a man on the moon, yet I knew he now felt utterly discarded by those who had come after him. What he’d already forgotten I’d never know; I had gained knowledge whereas Ed’s generation had acquired wisdom.
“Give up?” he asked, thumbing tobacco into his pipe.
“I’m all out of ideas,” I conceded, happy to be sharing in his big moment.
“I’m watching you,” the voice came down the phone. “Where are you?” I asked, pulling into the car park. “Drive straight on until you see a yellow Smart Car. I’m just past it on the right.” “Did you say yellow?” “I know, don’t even-” “-who in their right mind drives around in a yellow Smart Car?” “Banana Man.” “Who’s Banana Man?” “I don’t know.” “Maybe Big Bird’s in town.” “Big Bird couldn’t drive a Smart Car with those toes. They’re the size of fire extinguishers.” “Maybe it’s an automatic.” “Again, with feet that size, I’d say: still too dangerous.” “Yet it’s perfectly okay for a banana to get behind the wheel?” I queried. “I’m appalled and yet intrigued.” “Bananas are good for you.” “I don’t know what’s real anymore.” “Good because I need you to shut up anyway.” “Why?” “Because our yellow friend is sporting a bumper sticker.” “NO!” “Oh, yes. Would you like to know what it says?” “More than I need toilet paper.” “It’s contains an axiom for all of humanity,” I was baited further, “written in glitter.” I slammed on the brakes to avoid an accident. “Kittens are angels with whiskers,” Laverne purred down the phone.
“So are grannies,” I argued, as the vehicle in question came into view. “Jesus, they’re driving a two-door lemon!” “Dog-hating weirdos,” Laverne muttered, watching me park. “Long time, no see. How are you?” “Fine,” I started walking over to her. “Stop right there or I’ll activate my Social Distancing Alarm,” she stretched out her arm like a traffic cop. “Sorry, I’m still getting used to all that,” I backed away slowly. “Luckily, I’ve been practising social distancing since I was a five,” she sniffed. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
We’d arranged to meet at ASDA because our respective households were running low on essentials, plus, we wanted to catch up with each other in person. Crossing the supermarket car park, we were soon greeted by a queue that curled out of the entrance and along the entire storefront before disappearing around a corner. “Good God!” Laverne stopped dead in her tracks. “They’re lining up the infected and shooting them!” “More toilet paper for us then.” “Quite right,” she pressed onward. “Every cloud and all that.”
Directed past countless, evenly-spaced shoppers by a team of brightly attired Queue Coordinators, we began to lose hope when one of them waved us over. Jean usually worked the cigarette counter but had been commandeered to keep customers orderly outside. “John, what are you doing in the queue?” she asked. “You’re an essential worker. You can go straight in. Who’s this?” “I’m the help,” Laverne winked. “Not with those rings, Sweetheart,” Jean laughed. “Go on then, if you’re together.” “These two are essential workers!” she hollered to a colleague guarding the entrance and, as if on cue, the queue burst into spontaneous applause. “What the-” “You’re the new Harry & Meghan,” Jean cackled. “Work that red carpet!”
“I was going to be a nurse,” Laverne whispered, before addressing the queue. “Remember, 2m apart! Social distancing means more nurses on the job and fewer ill at home.” “Would you shut the hell up?” I whispered back. “Not a chance,” she smiled and waved to her subjects. “Look at how happy they are. Anyway, it could have been worse: your friend could have said we were the new Donald & Melanoma.” “You mean Melania.” “What’s the difference?” “You’d know if you were a nurse.” “Hey, I’ve got a husband and three teenaged sons which means I’ve been on call since 1978,” Laverne said, lifting up a baby. “Five minutes ago you were passing yourself off as my housekeeper.” “And now look at me. John, my mere presence is filling the great void within these peoples’ lives. If there’s one thing I learned in school it’s that nature abhors a vacuum.” True, but not as much as the help.
After work I thought I’d venture into Manchester to check out the city’s annual Mardi Gras shenanigans. Caught up in the spirit of goodwill, I ditched the 4×4 and opted instead for public transport to help save the Himalayan Poop Bat which, I’ve been reliably informed by my 16 year old niece, is hunted to make Poop Soup. This led to my boarding a bus only recently decommissioned by the Pyong Yang Transit Authority and shipped to Britain by sampan in the dead of night. Now glancing down the aisle at the human roadkill sprawled across each seat, I decided to remain standing and endeavoured to engage the driver in lively banter. This, however, proved a non-starter because life had kicked him in the nuts not once, but several times that shift, reducing him to a series of unintelligible expletives and questionable hand gestures. Backing away slowly, I retreated upstairs where I was immediately overwhelmed by an aroma you won’t find in any Laura Ashley candle.
Unexpectedly offloaded at the corner of Kidnap and Tetanus, I happened upon an old timer in a doorway balancing a few coins in his outstretched hand. Well, behind every face there’s a story so I asked him to start from the beginning. What unravelled was a sorry yarn indeed and at its end my raconteur summed up his lot, “I have a wooden crate for a seat, I have to beg to use the toilet, people brush past me as if I’m invisible, I can’t afford to buy myself a hot drink because a brew around here costs £5 and, worst of all, I have no idea where I’ll end up tomorrow. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”
“Yes,” I commiserated, “I’ve flown Ryanair.”
I then cut through the Gay Village where I had a deep and meaningful conversation with a 7ft woman. Thelma Mahogany Jr initially stopped me to ask for a light and yes, I will admit that for a brief moment I was outside of my comfort zone, however I would like to state for the record that it had nothing to do with her station in life and everything to do with the knife down each leg-warmer. I’ll talk to anyone and, as luck would have it, it turned out Thelma just happened to be going wherever I was.
As we strolled through The Village I marvelled at the outrageously extravagant decor adorning every building and asked her to pass on my compliments to the Mardi Gras Committee.
“Oh, those aren’t Mardi Gras decorations,” Thelma corrected me.
“They’re not?” I queried, taking a closer look. “Then what are they?”
“Isn’t your neighbourhood decorated all year round?”
“Nope.”
“Then what’s your street like?” she looked puzzled. “Is it just blank space everywhere?”
“Uh, I guess so,” I murmured, now giving it some thought.
“That’s a bit of a waste, don’t you think? Why not jazz it up? Honey, you gotta live a little!”
The lady had a point. And while I might not have gone in for the winged butt-plugs, I was starting to come around to the idea of a themed neighbourhood, in principle.
And our Thelma has dreams. She informed me that she is, among other things, an artiste who will soon be appearing at The Manhole in her one-woman show, a tribute to women of colour, past and present, entitled From Motown To Ho-Town. The production sounds very edgy because in the opening number she appears onstage as a black Elizabeth I, head-butting Pilgrims while twirling fire batons pre-soaked in poppers the night before. Other members of the cast include three Shih Tzus on hoverboards, an ABBA tribute act from Korea and Thelma’s own mother who will be throwing Bibles at the audience during the interval. As for the big finale, a final homage to those who went before her, Miss Mahogany Jr will lip-sync to her self-penned, glitch-hop track Ain’t No Hairdo High Enough.
You’re all invited.
Note From Management: All performances will be matinees only until Thelma’s ankle monitor comes off
Several years ago while travelling around Ukraine, I entered the only shop in a remote village to buy a couple of cold drinks. Placing my purchases on the counter, the elderly shopkeeper tallied my bill on an abacus then pushed it toward me. Not entirely up to speed on ancient counting tools which predate our own numeral system, I played it safe and handed him the equivalent of $5 in Ukrainian money. This, apparently, posed a problem and he asked if I had anything smaller. I replied, regrettably, that I did not. Thinking on it, he disappeared into the back before returning with a duckling which he duly handed over as my change.
The problem with holiday brochures is that they rarely cover an abacus/duck scenario. The pictures in them are enticing but the language is, at best, euphemistic and at worst, a flat out lie. And while it’s true that every situation can’t be covered, a bit of a heads-up regarding waterfowl as legal tender would go a long way for novices like moi.
Here then, is a list of terms from holiday brochures with their true meanings:
in-flight meal: UN ration with complimentary poppadom
in-flight entertainment: the sequel to the remake of the original, only this one’s set in the future where everyone can fly and stuff
short transfer to hotel: bring earplugs
car rental: how are you at replacing a head gasket?
bus service: you may be seated next to a goat in labour
local delicacies: if we can catch it, we’ll cook it
chef’s special: cake with a fly on top
all-inclusive resort: local excursions aren’t worth the risk of being kidnapped
in-house entertainment: an old man who takes out his artificial eye for the kids
cultural sensitivities: lose the MAGA hat
conservative: lose the rainbow flag beach towel
stunning wildlife: pack an anti-venom kit
365 days of sunshine: locals view redheads with suspicion
steeped in history: when in doubt, tell them you’re Canadian
friendly locals: a warlord wishes to marry your daughter
vibrant nightlife: gunfire
local amenities: you’re sharing a well with the next village
stunning scenery: ignore the oil refinery
exotic spices: stick to ketchup
unspoiled wilderness: don’t go in unarmed
tranquil setting: abandoned due to an ebola outbreak
health clinic: the vet will see you now
museum exhibits: those artefacts our country forgot to cart off when we left sharpish 150 years ago
Mr Ormsby At Large 