I had an arse full of wind the next morning, which I actually found rather pleasant. In fact, I wouldn’t have minded having it all the time! I bumped into Kristy on my way back from the shops, who proceeded to go into long and very complicated detail about her little grand-daughter being found to be lactose-intolerant, and how this was doubly unfortunate as they had only just got her trained onto solids as well. Most of this went completely over my head, and I was glad when her daughter drove up in a car and distracted her.
Back at ’Barnacles’ everything was fairly peaceful. The workmen were now waiting for the new plasterwork to dry, so the house was shut up and empty. I heard from Mrs Jackson recently that some little kids had been calling Henry’s old house The Spooky Place, well they could apply that title to our place as well at the moment! It’s quite distressing sometimes to see ’Barnacles’ in its current blank-eyed state, but at the same time I’m glad we’re still here. Moving away from it would have been intolerable, and even that short stint up at Rattlebone Farm had been bad enough.
Read my horoscope for the month ahead, which said that I would avoid friends and shut myself away to concentrate on work. I can live with that. It also said though that I would have financial problems, which was slightly less cheering (although not exactly anything startlingly different to the norm!). The postman called whilst I was making some tea. He’s got quite chatty lately, because he’s taken to banging on the campervan door when he’s got any mail for us, rather than stuffing it into the little spooky bungalow. He’s a young, somewhat burly lad, the sort who makes a joke about everything, which after dealing with the likes of Henry and Xanthe who make bloody heavy weather about everything, is a welcome change!
“You speaking to me today then?” he said.
“Don’t I always?” I replied.
“You didn’t speak to me on Tuesday”, he said “When you was in town”.
“I wasn’t in town on Tuesday”, I said.
“Yes you were”, he said “You was just coming out of old Beresford’s shop. I bumped into you on the pavement. I spoke, but you looked right through me and went on”.
“No it wasn’t me”, I said “I definitely didn’t go into town then. It must have been someone who looked like me [good-looking chap obviously]”.
So anyway, now it looks like (on top of everything else) there’s a doppelganger of me wandering about as well!
I didn’t tell Misty about this latest development, for the simple reason that life was already complicated enough as it is. Instead I went back into the campervan and did some long overdue work on our local website. I had been inundated with Christmas items which needed to be loaded up, including a surprisingly poetic piece from Mr Beresford, waxing lyrical about some new prints of Darklight Cove that he had in. I thought I might pop in sometime and have a look at them. Me that is this time, not my blasted doppelganger!
Late that night, whilst Misty was dozing (in spite of endless fireworks going off all around us), I put the headphones on and watched a programme about psychopaths. Our late night t.v schedules these days seem to consist of this sort of thing. Either that or fake phone-in quizzes, or educational sex programmes teaching you the joys of masturbation (strange, I never needed to be actually TAUGHT that one). Anyway, on this programme some learned criminal psychologist was giving a breakdown of which characteristics define a psychopath, and it occurred to me that Jeannette Temple had fitted all of them. I can’t remember them all, but some were: lack of empathy for others (Jeannette), lack of remorse (Jeannette), sexual promiscuity (Jeannette), and an inability to react to things the same way as normal people do (Jeannette). In short psychopaths are cold-bloodied, and it was certainly this quality that had come across uppermost about her. I can clearly remember one of the last conversations I had with her, in which she said that she didn’t think she was human.
She was a frightening individual, but I wish I had done more to stand up to her and tell her that what she was doing was wrong. But I suppose, as this programme showed, it wouldn’t have had any effect. It’s people like Henry who are almost more worrying really. I’ve long since come to the conclusion that Henry had the same mentality as those bloody silly women who write to serial killers on Death Row (and, what beggars belief, sometimes end up marrying them!). Henry had Pathetic Well-Meaning Do-Gooder written all over him.
There has been a lot in the news recently about the young Jehovah’s Witness woman who refused a vital blood transfusion after giving birth, and so died (at the age of 22). I’ve read people defending her right to do this, and some idiots even praising her for her strong religious convictions. NOT A SINGLE BLOODY WORD ABOUT THE POOR BABY NOW HAVING TO GROW UP WITHOUT A MOTHER!!! I don’t know who’s worse, the girl for wilfully chucking away the life that had been given her, or the CRETINS that have defended and supported her. I don’t want to hear your excuses. You know who you are, and you’re all vile.
One morning I was looking down at my unmade bunk, and wondering if it would work as a painting. Unfortunately it wasn’t gloriously decadent like Tracy Emin’s famous bed, with its overflowing ash-trays and used condoms. Instead there was just a book, my mobile phone, the remote control for the telly, a filthy hankie, and a hot water bottle (OK I know that last item makes me sound like The Queen, but you try living in a bloody campervan in the middle of November!). I thought though that it might work in a very downbeat sort of Edward Hopper-ish way, rather like those austere pictures he did of hotel rooms, which I had sometimes found a bit eerie, in that the inmates all looked vaguely like extraterrestrials in human form, who had suddenly found themselves plonked down on Earth and left to fend for themselves. I could call it something like “Shinglesea After The Flood”.
I was shaken from these (frankly) rather silly musings by the phone going off. Jason. Again. That silly sad sack Julie Sparrow was trying to get her paws on Andy’s old house. She wanted to do a séance there apparently, preferably in the run-up to Christmas (I fail to see what Christmas has got to do with it). If it went ahead (God forbid) could I be counted in?
This was a difficult one to reply to. Much as I could well live without spending any further time in Julie Sparrow’s company, the thought of a séance in Andy’s old pad had a certain macabre fascination. After all, this was where he claimed to have had nocturnal visitations from an alien, and where he had (allegedly) been victimised by the evil old couple next door. Andy was an area of my life where I would particularly like some closure. I would like to know how much of what had happened to him had been real, and how much had been in his poor tormented mind. I hedged on my answer, and said I MIGHT be interested.
Another blasted visit to the osteopath loomed. His practice is in an old Georgian house on the outskirts of Fobbington, a gloomy old pile at the best of times, but this particular appointment was early in the evening, after it had gone dark, so it was even gloomier than ever. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that he never seems to put the heating on in there, so if you haven’t got arthritis when you arrive, there’s a good chance you’ll have it by the time you leave!
Whilst waiting to be called in, I tried to keep myself warm by walking up and down the dark corridor outside his consulting room. When my phone rang, it seemed to shatter the heavy silence of the place like a bomb going off. I thought it might be Misty. I had left him sitting in the campervan in the public car-park nearby. One of the problems with living in a campervan is that if it gets nicked, you’ve not only lost your mode of transport but your bloody house as well! It wasn’t him on the other end of the line though, but Xanthe.
“Oh Gray, it’s terrible”, she said “You must put the telly on at once”.
“I’d have a hard job”, I said “I’m at the osteopaths”.
“What are you doing there?” she said, sounding annoyed, as though I was being deliberately awkward to provoke her.
“I’ve got arthritis in my hand”, I said.
“Have you STILL got that?”
“Yes, I thought I’d hang onto it”, I said, sarcastically.
“Put Misty in the van at once”, she said.
“He’s already in it”, I said “Xanthe, what’s all this about? I’m going to get called in at any moment”.
“It’s terrible”, she said “There’s a dreadful storm coming in. A tidal build-up in the North Sea. They’re evacuating people from the east coast”.
“Xanthe”, I said “I don’t know if you’ve noticed [probably not], but we’re not on the east coast!”
“But it could spread round our way”, she said “They showed a map on the News, and we’re in one of the coloured areas”.
“Even if that’s true”, I said (and you could forgive me for being sceptical) “It’s not going to happen in the next 5 minutes. High tide isn’t until 4 o’clock in the morning!”
“I don’t know how you can be so complacent, not when Misty‘s life is at stake”, she wailed “It’s all going to happen again, just like it did back in July …”
I switched the phone off.
Fortunately, for the people on the east coast, Xanthe’s dire prognostications didn’t come to pass. Instead the great storm surge was just a small bit of flooding, and some heavily-swollen rivers. It was a bit scary whilst it lasted, but not exactly the cataclysmic terror that had been predicted. Some people even went surfing in it off the coast of Norfolk! Dedicated lot, surfers, I have a lot of time for them.
I don’t know what fit of foolishness overtook me, but I messed around with an online ouija board. Misty had gone round to see Mrs Jackson’s dog, otherwise he’d have probably thrown the computer out of the window if he’d known. I suppose in some way I was trying to break the spell of ouija boards, after what those students had unwittingly unleashed when they played it in Rufus Franklin’s old house. It was an interesting experience, I suppose that’s the best way to describe it. I asked if Shinglesea would ever be flooded again, and it said “NO“. Well you can’t blame me for wanting to believe that one! The storm surge in the North Sea had made me grateful once again for our sea-wall. Without it ’Barnacles’ wouldn’t have just been flooded, it would probably have been swept out to sea, with me and Misty clinging to the kitchen table, like Mapp and Lucia!
I deliberately held off from asking the board any personal questions about myself and Misty, as I felt that was asking for trouble, and if there are bad things waiting for us in the future, then I’m certainly not in any hurry to go rushing to meet them, so on the whole I kept it to general news, and some bits about the Temples.
“Is Madeleine McCann still alive?” “NO”.
“Were her parents responsible?” “NOT KNOWN”.
“I mean, were her parents responsible for her death?” “YES”.
“Where is she?” “CLOSE”.
“Is she being taken care of?” “YES”.
“Will this mystery be solved in the next year?” “MAYBE”.
“Is Henry there?” “YES”. (Not in any bloody hurry to speak to him mind).
“Is he with Jeannette?” “TOO DARK”.
“Where are they then?” “LOOK NEARBY”. (Not on your life!).
“Is there a Heaven?” “YES”.
“Is there a Hell?” “NO”.
“Where do people go who don’t go to Heaven?” “NEARBY”.
All this was just a tad too heavy for comfort. It’s easy to forget when you’re doing something like this that it’s really just a bit of clever computer programming, that’s all, there isn’t really a ghost in the machine passing on messages from The Other Side. Even so, I had found the Madeleine McCann stuff particularly eerie, so I decided to close by lightening it up a bit.
“Will my arthritic hand get better?” “NO”. (Cheers, thanks).
“Should I carry on seeing the osteopath then?” “YES”.
“Will next Summer be hotter and drier than this one?” “YES”.
“Will it rain tomorrow?” “NO”.
For the record it rained the next day, just as I had known the Met Office had said it would.
Met Office: 1 Ouija board: 0.
It was a couple of days after this that our mysterious friend, the pebble-scrubber, was back. Once again, it was very late at night. Misty was dozing in his bunk, and I was idly sketching out some ideas for future work projects. It wasn’t unusual to hear voices in the lane late at night, as people sometimes passed by when going night-fishing on the beach. So at first I didn’t take any notice when I heard someone outside, but then I realised that they seemed to be sobbing.
I picked up a heavy torch (which if necessary could be used to clout anyone who decided to give me trouble), and went to have a look. A man appeared to be standing at the bottom of Henry’s drive, sobbing into his hands.
“What’s wrong?” I shouted.
I had to shout this several times, by which time Misty had appeared in the doorway.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out!” I said.
Curiously though, I didn’t make any move to approach this person. (I like to think that part of this was just plain common-sense. I read far too many news stories where some obliging soul goes to help a person in distress and ends up killed or injured for their trouble, but I will say that I also think it was some kind of psychic reaction. I simply didn’t want to get too close to this … Thing).
Suddenly he moved off, striding briskly away from us down the lane. There are no street-lights in our part of Shinglesea, and so if there isn’t a full moon, or it’s a cloudy night (as this was), there is very little light at all. Our strange sobber was soon swallowed up by the darkness.
“Come on, get back inside”, I said, turning to Misty.
For a moment, I thought he was going to ask me if it was Henry again, but he didn’t.
I had another phone call from Xanthe, this time weeping and wailing because one of the bloody farm cats had disappeared. She had befriended this cat apparently. She said she thought she had found a soul mate in him, and that in many ways they were very much alike, only (and she said this, not me) the cat was more intelligent! There was much more along these lines, until in the end I speculated about blowing my brains out, on the grounds that then I wouldn’t be able to hear her voice anymore! It was in this line of thought that suddenly Julie Sparrow’s in-depth psychic investigation at Andy’s old house no longer seemed such a bad idea. I mean, if I am going to be surrounded by nutters, I might at least go the whole bleedin’ hog! Also, according to Jason, they were going to spend several days at it, and suddenly (as long as Misty was with me of course) several days away from the vicinity of ’Barnacles’ sounded a bit of alright, particularly as Charmless Pillock (accompanied by his radio) was about to get to work re-doing the floor.
We arranged to meet up with Jason at ‘The Crab’ in Fobbington to finalise plans. This took place on a beautiful frosty day. It’s unusual round our way to get such lingering sharp frosts, and this one was gorgeous. The pub was snug and warm, but unfortunately our finalising of plans didn’t get very far, as we seemed to spend most of our time talking about Al! Magda had had a text message from him, in which he asked her to send him details of a spaghetti bolognaise recipe he knew she had. Magda was annoyed about this, as not only did she have too much to do already (and needless to say the ongoing work at the bungalow was getting her down), but she found the message a bit of damn cheek.
“She said he hasn’t spoken to her properly since August Bank Holiday”, said Jason “And yet there’s no ’hi how have you been doing?’ nothing like that, just ’please send me your spag bog recipe’. I mean, I ask you, what’s the matter with the bloke!”
“Don’t ask me!” I said.
“Well I don’t understand him”, said Jason “He hasn’t even been in touch with Xanthe, and I thought at one time those two might of been starting to get a bit of a thing going”.
“For once I don’t blame him there”, I said “She does seem to be worse than ever. All this nonsense about a damn cat!”
“Xanthe loves animals”, said Misty, reprovingly (he thinks I’m being a bit unfair about the cat, and he’s probably right).
“Yeah, but you haven’t heard the worst of it”, said Jason “She says if anything’s happened to it, she’d like to give it a proper funeral, have it cremated at the vets”.
“What’s wrong with that?” said Misty, who was starting to get a rather fierce look on his face.
“Nothing”, said Jason “Except that she then said that when her time comes, she’d have liked her ashes mixed with the cats‘!”
(Even Misty balked at this one).
“I guess we just have to start thinking of her as a dotty old spinster”, I said (although, to be blunt, I’ve always thought of her that way, but then who I am to talk, an unknown artist living in a campervan, and going ghost-hunting to get away from the builders!!!).
We went for a walk to look at the outside of Andy’s house. That road looked even more wretched than ever.
“How did they manage to escape being flooded?” I said, looking at the harbour opposite.
“They had sandbags”, said Jason.
Ask a silly question.
To be honest though, I was pretty bored by the whole ghost-hunting business before it had even started. I just didn’t think anything worthwhile was going to happen. When I met the small band who we were going to be spending the night there with, I was pretty certain of it. I just couldn’t believe any self-respecting ghost/alien/elemental/whatever was going to appear to this lot!
The racing-commentator’s house hadn’t changed at all since we had gone to see Andy there a year ago. It was still a chilly, impersonal place. The only sign that anybody ever lived there at all was the dining-room, which he clearly used as a study, and which had photographs of racehorses and certificates plastered all over the walls. It was also a mistake being there again because it made me realise how much I missed Andy, and how worried I had been about him. I hadn’t a clue where he was, even if he was still alive, and I had long since come to the resigned conclusion that I probably was never likely to know.
Julie Sparrow’s little band of helpers only reinforced all this. There was a young girl who was supposed to be our resident medium. When we finally came to do a séance in the living-room, she kept making tiresome jokes, and then quipping “just a little psychic humour, huh?” which rapidly got more and more tedious as the evening went on. She reminded me of the sort of people who post messages on the Internet, and insist on putting “lol” (in case you’re one of the blessed few who haven’t come across this inane thing, it’s Net shorthand for “laugh out loud“) after every sentence. (I always imagine some raving idiot sat at a keyboard laughing hysterically like an out-of-control hyena whilst they’re posting!).
At least she was relatively harmless though. The same could not be said for Gerry Manning. There is a type I loathe on sight, and he’s one of them. You just know before he even opens his mouth that he’s going to have political views a little to the right of Hitler, and that he instantly goes into a paranoid buttock-clench when he thinks a queer might be in the vicinity (frightened he might actually have a good time, eh?!). I think he was meant to be there as the token sceptic (translate that as token troll). His image in my eyes wasn’t enhanced by his insistence on wearing a polo-shirt buttoned up to the neck. I actually think that this sort of thing should be made a criminal offence. In my experience any bloke who wears any kind of shirt buttoned right up to the neck (for pity’s sake either undo it or put a bloody tie on!!!) is going to bore you rigid within a few seconds of meeting them (and probably make you want to take a cold shower too) , but polo shirts are the worst offenders. It seems to signpost a mental attitude (whatever age the wearer) that suggests We Have A Particularly Nasty And Repressed Schoolboy Here.
We were supposed to be spending the night in the same house as this lot. But I had a strong suspicion that once the cider started flowing in earnest that Gerry Manning would get very nasty indeed, and I didn’t want Misty exposed to this. God knows, he had already had enough of all this stuff from Henry and his awful friend Rowland Richards. Plus I really didn’t think I could sit opposite Manning all evening, not without throwing up anyway. So after the séance, (a complete non-event, I had had a more interesting time with the online ouija board!) we drove back to ‘Barnacles’. Jason was disappointed, but c’est la vie.
When we parked back at Beach Lane, Misty said that if the séance had gone on any longer, he would have smashed the bloody glass against the wall.
We soon had more pressing, everyday things to fill our thoughts than any of this. The time was looming near when we would be able to move back into ‘Barnacles’, and I for one was very excited about this. I’ve never really been a Playing At Keeping House sort of person, but I found myself getting quite cheerful at the thought of buying new furniture. (Or perhaps having spent 3months living in a campervan had made me feel this way!). The same could not be said of Misty.
One day, when there wasn’t a builder in sight, I took him on a tour of the bungalow to show him how fresh and pristine everything was looking. All the little tyke could do was to say that It Didn’t Look Like Our House.
“Well of course it doesn’t at the moment!” I said, in exasperation “It’s just been gutted and done out! But it will in time”.
He walked around inspecting everything like a snotty school prefect looking for something to complain about. I went out into the back garden, where Kristy (wearing a very dashing new sheepskin jacket) was raking up leaves, and yelled “BLOODY MEN!” at her. She sort of blinked at me in bemusement, and I went back inside again.
Misty knew he had annoyed me, and went into a sulk about it. He had got himself into one of those moods where he had dug himself into a hole and didn’t know how to dig himself out, and for once I wasn’t in the mood to help him. I had to make a list of jobs I needed to do that afternoon, and halfway down it I put “KICK MISTY’S BUTT”.
Just letting off a bit of steam you know.
Watched a documentary in which a guy put a convincing case forward that most UFO sightings of the past 60 years were actually people inadvertently witnessing top-secret military testing. Even humanoid sightings could be put down to this, particularly where the “aliens” had been spotted wearing all-over protective clothing. Certainly I’m quite ready to believe this, as I think it’s always been the case that a lot of world governments have always been doing a heck of a lot behind the scenes that we don’t (and in some cases probably never will) know about. He even claimed that the notorious cattle mutilations in parts of America could be put down to this, as the powers-that-be were testing various things on parts of the poor creatures. The only problem I had with this is though, if that’s the case, you’d think they’d buy their own cattle to experiment on, and why go to all the trouble of returning the mutilated corpses? You’d think they’d have their own means of disposing of them! So the programme confirmed that whilst I’m very sceptical about many things in the ufology world, I’m not ENTIRELY sceptical.
Incidentally, read on the Internet of a case from Russia earlier this year, where some locals in a far-flung town claimed that they had been regularly visited by alien spacecraft. I think you would have to be an almost religious believer in extraterrestrials to think there was anything paranormal about this. Certainly I could believe that Putin’s mob were up to just about ANYTHING. Robbie thinks that a lot of the very weird spam e-mails we get are down to them, (which conjures up a bizarre image of top KGB officials asking me if I think 6 inches is satisfactory or not!!!).
Woken up early the next morning by the most horrendous racket outside. Turned out to be the truck coming to take our over-laden skip away at long last. Was delighted to see the back of this bloody eyesore, a sorry sight with all our old doors and radiators languishing in it. Read on the local news Teletext that yet another power-cut had hit many parts of our county, and also that severe flooding and lightning strikes had struck many areas once again. One school even got flooded out because some moron had nicked the lead from their roof! Cannot help feeling that if another plummy-voiced idiot from our local council tries to tell us once again that last July’s floods were a one-off I shall probably saw his head off! (As to what I’ll do to anyone who claims they don’t believe in global warming … well you really don’t want to know).
Had a pleasant chat with the bloke who came to put the finishing touches to the decorating, which only put Misty in more of a snot than ever. I said I was going into town to see Mr Beresford, and he could either come with me, or stay at home and sit on the veranda in the drizzle. Once we got into Fobbington, I didn’t feel the need for him to stay and mind the van, not now that ’Barnacles’ was nearly finished, as we had moved some of our stuff back into it, and had even moved some things down from the loft.
In Mr Beresford’s emporium I asked him if he had had a customer recently who looked like me, at which he looked at me as if I was mad.
“Just somebody said to me recently that they had seen me coming out of here”, I said “When I knew that I hadn’t been here”.
“You are taking enough time out to relax, Gray?” he asked me, with anxious concern.
(Oh Christ, he thinks I’m losing my marbles again!).
“Absolutely”, I said “He must have just been mistaken that’s all”.
“You don’t seem as fun-loving as you used to be”, he said “You don’t laugh as much”.
“Well”, I said, uncomfortably “I think on the whole I laugh pretty well, compared to a lot of people I see around these days anyway!”
He looked somewhat dubious at this.
“I’ve got a little diversion for you”, he said, eventually “Somebody left this with me earlier. They thought it looked vaguely Christmassy, so it might sell, although really I don’t know what it is”.
I couldn’t tell whether it was meant to be a vase or an ornament, or some very grand kind of Aladdin’s lamp. It was a large vase-shaped object, but the front came away to reveal what looked like a little stage inside. It was too chipped around the top to be worth anything, but I thought it had a certain novelty value.
Anyway, I took his not-laughing-enough comment to heart. (After all, it comes to something when a guy who looks like The Keeper Of The Crypt is telling you to be more fun-loving!). So when we got home I ordered a job lot of cheap comedy dvds from Amazon.
A chance encounter with Mrs Jackson out in the lane when we got home filled me in on some of the latest village gossip (if you can call it that). The people over the road from her, who she thinks are drug-dealers (sigh), are acting even more strange. Apparently what this Strange Behaviour boiled down to was this: their living-room net curtain has been hanging down skew-whiff for days, and they haven’t done anything about it yet. Things have reached a pretty sorry pass when this is what constitutes Strange Behaviour! Far more alarming was her passing comment that she had heard a rumour that Tara Mitchell may have been released back onto the unsuspecting public. My heart sank when I heard this news, and I hoped she was wrong.
Had a rotten night’s sleep. Not because of Tara Mitchell but because some bloody helicopters kept flying around overhead. I looked out at around 2.00 a.m and the bastard even had his searchlight spazzing about all over Shinglesea. I was not in a good mood the next morning. When I glanced out of the van door I saw an absolutely jet black cat standing on our garden path. It’s not often that you see one that is completely black, and I watched it in fascination.
“Are you bringing good luck or bad luck?” I asked myself.
I know it’s boring hearing about other people’s dreams, but mine really had been extraordinary lately. I took the endless visions of calm seas, and the ones where I was learning to fly, as a good omen, and even the ones that had a dark undertone were uplifting in a strange sort of way. In one of them I was having a one-night stand with a famous comedian (I won’t embarrass him by revealing his name), and at one point my father stormed in and began having a go at us. After he had stormed out again the comedian turned to me and said “you’ve really got to get rid of him you know”. A few seconds later (in the dream) I was cramming a huge chocolate éclair, oozing with cream, into my mouth. (Students of Freud can have a field day with one!).
Back in the land of the waking, Misty told me that his recent bad temper had been down to the fact that he had piles, and that he got burning sensations when he went to the loo. I was rather narked that this sorry state of affairs had been going on for a couple of weeks, and that he hadn’t seen fit to tell me about it.
“It took me a while to realise what was wrong”, he said.
I was rather exasperated with him over this. Meanwhile, our painter and decorator came and spent a while weekend putting the finishing touches to ’Barnacles’, and some strange coves in fluorescent jackets turned up and mooched about on the site of Henry’s old house. They went away again soon after, without any visible sign of them having done anything.
Heard on the news that a schoolteacher in the Sudan had been arrested for letting the children in her class call a teddy-bear Mohammed. I suddenly felt a great urge to emulate the old man in ’The Life Of Brian’, the one who is about to be stoned to death for blasphemy, and decides he’s got nothing to lose so he might as well shout “JEHOVAH! JEHOVAH! JEHOVAH!” Ahem, here goes:
“MOHAMMED! MOHAMMED! MOHAMMED! MOHAMMED! MOHAMMED!”
Oh that’s enough of that, it gets rather boring after a while.
Grow up and get a life, you fucking sad losers.
Was in the middle of watching our local MP on some idiotic morning talk show on the t.v, (where he was considerably more animated and verbal than he had been at our flood meeting, can only assume someone had stuck jump-leads on him!), when Misty came back from the shops. He too was looking rather pinker round the gills than he had of late.
“How are your piles today?” I asked.
“Better”, he said “I farted all the way round Tesco’s, and that made it feel lots better”.
“That must have been very pleasant for everybody else!” I said.
“S’alright”, he said “It was quite quiet in there”.
“Not after you’d got in!” I said.
Whilst he made some coffee, I vacuumed the little fans on my laptop to stop it wheezing, and then checked my e-mails. Had one from Magda, who sounded suspiciously like she had been talking to Mr Beresford.
“Thought you might like something completely daft to lighten your day”, she said (thanks, I’ve got Misty for that), and posted a link to some whimsical website which works out your fairy identity for you.
I could have done all sorts of enjoyable Frankie Howerd-style responses to that one, but instead did a more resigned sort of “oh go on then” approach. You had to type in your first and last names, and then it tells you what kind of fairy you are (a grumpy, people-loathing one, permanently bordering on insanity, if everyone else is to be believed!).
Anyway, it turns out that I am Fairy Goblin Frost, (sounds about right), bringer of riches and wealth (yeah, sure!), I live in a high place where the clouds meet the earth (in my dreams, I wouldn’t have got frigging flooded out then), and am only seen during the first snows of the winter. Misty is Fairy Columbine Ice Frost, bone chilling bringer of justice for the vulnerable (well in a very sweet sort of way). He lives in mushroom fields and quiet meadows, and like me is only seen during the first snows of winter.
Sometimes I really think life couldn’t get any dafter if it tried.
Work was preying on my mind. I sometimes got ambitious ideas in my head, which frustrated me. Partly because I didn’t know where to start with them, and partly because I was nervous about breaking out of my comfortable track. I didn’t want to upset Mr Beresford. God knows he had been patient enough with me of late, and I also knew that without his continuing patronage, I would find it very hard to continue in this occupation. The grim spectre of having to go back to working in an office was never far from my thoughts.
Once you’ve had a big taste of freedom, it’s hard to face the prospect of giving it up again. It wasn’t just that though. There was also the practical problem of leaving Misty to his own devices all day long. It’s not that he’s incapable of looking after himself, it’s that his absent-mindedness can be dangerous, plus he can become totally fixated on one trivial issue and let it dominate his thoughts for hours on end. (Once, when I was still working out in The Real World, he rang me several times in one day because he couldn’t decide whether to go and buy a packet of biscuits or not!).
Also, at the risk of sounding totally pathetic, I would miss him, even for that few hours. I had got used to Misty’s take on the world, and would find it hard to go back to spending time with people who are obsessed with balance sheets, action lists, and the bloody ring-tone on their mobile phone! This was confirmed to me in a peculiar way when I had to go and have my 6-monthly check-up at the dentist.
My dentist seemed to have got herself into quite a state about something. It turned out to be Christmas turkey.
“I’ve bought mine already”, she said, defensively “To go in the freezer … what with bird-flu and everything, you can’t be too careful … and it’s not Christmas if you don’t have a turkey … I don’t care what anybody says … not steak or fish [this bit said very aggressively indeed] … IT HAS TO BE TURKEY!”
She went on in this vein the entire time I was in there. I almost had to remind her that I’d actually come to have my teeth looked at! It’s one of those times when the door gets left ajar and you get a glimpse into the horrors of Middle Class World (I get a similar thing from the osteopath sometimes, when he gets in a rage about global warming, which he regards as a modern new-fangled idea of politicians, invented solely to make his life a misery). This is the type who read the ’Daily Express’ (which only ever has 3 front page stories: Madeleine McCann, Princess Diana, and how many immigrants there are at large in the country), and imbibe every word printed therein. The thought of going back to spending several hours a day in the company of these people (nice though many of them are) is quite painful to contemplate.
I left the surgery eventually, without having told her that we’re having spaghetti bolognaise again for Christmas lunch this year. I had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to handle it somehow.