Further Bewilderment: Episode 14

Monday:

So, back to reality. The toxins that I inflicted on my long-suffering vitals in Holland are gradually being flushed from my system. I resolve to have an abstemious week: lots of fruit, healing waters and a stroll or two perhaps.  I’ve spent a lifetime wrestling with such good intentions and have invariably lapsed quite quickly.

I walk to the minimarket. Once there, I avoid the wine section and instead buy some ludicrously priced bottled water and a few bits and bobs. Satan’s Sister is on the checkout, looking as ghoulish as ever. I can’t figure out why she has such a greenish pallor. Perhaps she’s slowly decomposing.

‘Off the booze then, dearie?’ she asks.

‘Yes, I’m saving myself for Walpurgis Night,’ I tell her.

‘Wassat, then?’

‘It’s when all the witches, goblins and sorcerers get together to plan mischief,’ I say.

‘’Ere, it’s not devil worship, is it?’  

‘Well, it can be,’ I say. ‘But in the sect that I belong to, we restrict ourselves to deflowering virgins and dancing on graves. We also sing Kum Ba Yah, just to get into the spirit of things. As you look like a woman of experience and aren’t yet completely dead, you’re probably safe from us for the time being.’ 

‘Blimey, it takes all sorts,’ she says with a shudder.

As I leave the shop, I realize that I’ve actually been snide and unkind to Satan’s Sister. I resolve to try to find something complimentary to say to her the next time I’m there. It won’t be easy.

Tuesday:

Oh joy. The Bellowing Brat and his parents are moving out. As the removal men trudge up and down the stairs, he is on hand to treat them to his full repertoire of soap theme tunes. In a funny sort of way I’ll miss him. He was a bit like a human dandelion clock. When he started warbling the various themes, I knew roughly what time of day it was.

Wednesday:

I can sense an impending visit from my old pal, the Black Dog. Weeks, even months can pass by when I function quite well. I get up at a reasonable time, I brush my teeth, I shower, shave and silently thank who, or whatever it is that has permitted me to survive another day. I forgive trespasses and I’m grateful for my daily bread. I smile at the postman as he delivers the dreaded brown envelopes from the Inland Revenue and I might even whistle as I fold myself into the crappy Micra to go out to get my newspaper. Then sometimes, as is happening today, I get a very slight blurring of vision, a kind of mist that clouds the borders of my picture of the world and my place in it. Like an old family photograph faded at the edges. I begin to feel like a vignette rather than a real person.

When I succumb to this and the Black Dog perches on my shoulder, I might stay in bed until noon or beyond, cowering under the duvet.  I have to force myself to shave and perform the usual ablutions. I’ll eat lots of crap, bite my fingernails and feel utterly worthless. However, today I’m lifted out of the gloom by hearing yet another story about my old friend Dougo – he of the shaven head and the monkey on a stick (see Episode 7)

In the early hours of the morning, he was walking back to his hotel after playing at a club in Hamburg in the 1960s.  Turning a corner, he saw a man attacking a woman.  She was on the ground and the man was ripping at her clothes and punching her.  Now, Dougo has a reputation of being something of a ladies’ man and here was a damsel in distress, an outrage being committed against nobility and courtly love. In the twinkling of an eye, he was transformed from a humble guitarist into a Lancelot or an Ivanhoe.  He leapt on the man’s back pulling him off the woman.  Rather than looking grateful or relieved, the woman looked puzzled, but Dougo aimed a few blows at the man who seemed to offer no resistance. Then two other men appeared and pinioned Dougo’s arms. He didn’t give up easily and struggled and kicked.

Now the woman and her attacker began laughing and Dougo thought for a moment that he’d been set up and was about to be robbed.  He struggled some more and he and the two men fell to the ground in a heap of tangled arms and legs.  Now, everyone but Dougo was laughing and before he could lash out further, they congratulated him for his brave intervention, but explained that they were in fact trying to shoot a scene for a film. Exit Sir Galahad – stage left.

I feel better already. So much so in fact that I rashly order a new mobile phone. I hope it has big keys.

Thursday:

Something wakes me very early. I can’t be sure but I think somebody is lurking outside my door. I can see a dark shape through the frosted glass. I put the door on the chain, open it a few inches and peer out. There’s a man on the landing dressed in black and wearing a balaclava.  This in itself is scary enough, but I notice that he’s also holding a gun.  He stares at me for a moment and then steps toward my door.

I should slam the door and hide under my bed, or pretend to be a cherished old overcoat in the wardrobe, but I freeze with terror.  They say that a drowning man’s life is spun out before him and in these nanoseconds I think of all my misdeeds and which of them might finally have brought retribution. Over the course of my life I’ve given offence to many people. At times, I’ve been an unkind, disloyal, two-faced, egotistical shitbag, but surely it won’t end like this with me in my tatty underpants, bed socks and a hole between the eyes. As far as I can recall, I’ve never made any disparaging remarks about Islam, the Russian Mafia, or the Cornish Liberation Front. Then, in the brief moments before my expected death, I remember that I have consistently taken the piss out of Creationists over the years. Their dismissal of Darwin and all the fossil evidence that shows that the Earth and its various creatures, including humanoids, go back millions of years is ludicrous and as far as I’m concerned, a legitimate target for ridicule.  Some of them believe that man and the dinosaurs co-existed happily and in their literature they depict cavemen riding on the backs of compliant flesh-eating lizards. They also believe that fossils were deliberately planted by God to test our faith.

 Maybe this man in black with a gun is part of the Militant Creationist Tendency, come to rub out a harmless rationalist. I begin to think that I might just as well have overindulged in Merlot last night if I’m to die here on my doorstep at the hands of a lunatic who thinks that dear old Galileo was in the pay of the Devil. But instead of shooting me the man speaks.

‘Police operation, sir.  Stay inside until you get the all clear.’

I do as he says and quietly close the door and wonder who in the building could be the target. I look out of my bedroom window and see a number of police vehicles and men dressed like my supposed assassin entering the block. Suddenly there’s a lot of shouting and a big bang. A woman screams, then more shouting. Finally, I see a man being dragged out by the police. It’s Kryten, the odious Robocop. Yippee, there’s a God after all.  After about half an hour, there’s a knock at the door and I’m told by a quite winsome policewoman that it’s safe to emerge.

All the residents are gathered in the downstairs lobby where Reg, the bombastic caretaker is acting as though he’s holding a press conference, having just organised the arrest of a dangerous terrorist.  It transpires that Reg, ever vigilant and perennially nosey, had for some time noticed strange coming and goings at Kryten’s flat and suspected foul play of some kind. According to him, he kept watch and saw small packages changing hands at the door. He then contacted Jason, the dopey community cop, and this resulted in today’s raid. Kryten it seems had a little sideline in drug dealing. This would explain the strange visit I had some weeks ago from the crazy woman asking for “Winston” and Jason’s warning about “disreputable” looking characters in the neighbourhood. The men in black have also taken Kryten’s wife, The Mouse, into custody and other cops are searching their flat.

Sandy, one half of Tutankhaman’s Dream – the sand dancing act, is beside himself.  He’s wearing a hair net and a kimono.

‘Blimey, who would have thought it? Shiny Boots being a drug dealer. If I’d have known, I could have got my steroids from him.’

As I return to my flat, I remember the parking ticket that Kryten gave me a couple of weeks ago. I shall write to the chief constable asking that it be cancelled as the issuing officer is now under arrest.

Friday:

The police continue to ransack Kryten’s flat. They’ve even got a cute little spaniel which I presume is a sniffer dog. I wonder if they train these animals by getting them hooked on drugs.  I can imagine kennels where the dogs are hyped up on ecstasy and boogieing the night away, while others are laid back on a bit of skunk, discussing karma and talking a load of bollocks.

Saturday:

My new mobile arrives. It’s something called an android and doesn’t have any keys. After some time, I work out how to switch it on. I then spend a happy few hours trying to figure out how to make a call and store some numbers. The touch screen keypad is minute and it’s only when I shake the bloody thing in exasperation that the screen goes into landscape mode and the keypad appears much bigger. I suppose I’ll get used to it, just as I have with my hoover.

Sunday:

After an abstemious week, I feel justified in purchasing some Free Trade Merlot at the minimarket. Remembering that I was unkind to Satan’s Sister on my last visit, I struggle to find a compliment.

‘You look well,’ I tell her, even though she looks like a zombie.

‘Do I? I ‘aven’t been well you know,’ she says.

‘Oh dear. Nothing serious I hope.’

‘Trouble down below,’ she mouthes, pointing downwards.

I give a shudder, but try to look sympathetic.

So, an interesting week. The Bellowing Brat has gone. Kryten is banged up. The Black Dog has buggered off and I’ve got some Merlot to look forward to. A few more gigs would be nice, but I give thanks that I’m still above ground and able to blow the sax.

NB: My lovely daughter, Lisa, now has a very entertaining blog and recipe site at www.comeeatwithme.com  Lots of scrumptious things to cook and tales of life in a tiny seaside village in Cornwall.   It’s free to subscribe.

© David Sherrington 2012