*That’s not me, Clicky… Um… /pulls face… similar hair but knot me…*
My eyes lit up upon seeing the three copies of the book I’d ask Leggy for as part payment for my story contributions, but there was something else in the parcel that made my mouth water as well…
*******
Digression for any Yanks looking in – what I’m about to describe is probably more familiar to you as ‘cookies’, and is pronounced…
*Hmm… well only some of them will pronounce it that particular manner, Clicky…*
biscuit (n.) respelled early 19c. from bisket (16c.), ultimately (besquite, early 14c.) from Old French bescuit (12c.), literally “twice cooked;” altered under influence of cognate Old Italian biscotto, both from Medieval Latin biscoctum, from Latin (panis) bis coctus “(bread) twice-baked;” see bis- + cook (v.). U.S. sense of “soft bun” is recorded from 1818.
*/holds up hand… They should only be limp after you’ve dipped them, Clicky…*
*Well, Hobnobs are notoriously difficult dunkers to debunk… /squints… And don’t you dare move onto Jaffa Cakes… This digression is over, Clicky… Capisce?*
*******
I knew they were coming; I’d been teased with photos of them a couple of days before…
Poppy Sweetpea’s chocolate chip cookies (OK I said ‘cookie’…
Poppy Sweetpea’s whole almond Jew cakes, sprinkled in cinnamon and sugar (OK, not really cakes…)
Poppysweet Pea’s cocoa and orange snails and German nougat and hazelnut ovals
Poppy Sweet Pea’s chocolate orange wedges
Poppy Sweetpea’s Penguin and Hedgehogs made of vanilla and almonds
But there is nothing like snapping the lid off a tupperware box and breathing in the waft of homemade biscuity goodness, escaping from inside…
*/huffs… Yeah!*
Of course I sampled one of each of Poppy Sweet Pea’s delightful creations straightaway, Dear Reader – completely delish! – but then stupidly left the remainder in the box, in the kitchen. Yes, the Kit Chinwag room. How the fuck could I forget where Thing 2‘s first port of call upon arrival from school is? It was a massacre…
So, to the wonderful Poppy Sweet Pea, with thanks from Kid Biskit, one of his all time favourite tunes…
Erm… as it turns out, I’m now going to be quite busy tomorrow. So, Dear Reader, here is the second installment of ‘Secret Santa‘ today. Enjoy!
*******
Unexpectedly, Josie called me the next day. She said she wanted a ‘quiet word’, and all I could do was imagine her hot breath in my ear. We agreed to rendezvous in the empty conference room, so I took the opportunity to visit the bathroom en route. Just to freshen up, adjust my underwear, that sort of thing.
She was already there when I arrived, sitting at the head of the table. Her long legs were crossed and her business skirt had ridden up to expose smooth, tanned thigh. She must use an all over sunbed because her tight-fitting, white blouse contrasted nicely with the colour of her caramel cleavage, making the most of her small but perky tits.
“Thank you for coming to speak with me, Harry. I realise you’re very busy.” She waited until I’d closed the door and sat down before continuing. “I need to speak to you about Shazza.”
“Sharon on reception?” I asked with an innocent face.
“Yes. I’m afraid she’s made a complaint against you. Apparently you were very rude to her yesterday.” Josie’s tone and steady gaze was meant to impart the seriousness of the situation. It just made me want to cover her plump lips with my own even more.
“Josie…I don’t know what to say. I’m…Is this about Secret Santa? I know I was a bit short with Shazza, but I was extremely busy at the time finalising our bid for the Clovis account. So this…is this an official complaint?” I enquired, feigning immense concern. Little Shazza’s had the nerve to make a complaint? That’ll be the day.
Josie looked flustered at my reply. A splash of humility can work wonders when you have as prickly a reputation as mine. “Er, no. Not an official complaint per se, but she mentioned the incident to me in private conversation. I thought I should have a word. I could see she was very upset.”
Not an official complaint, then? Interesting. “Let me assure you, Josie, that I’ll apologise to Shazza at the earliest possible opportunity.” I reached over and covered her delicate but beautifully tanned hand with my own and let it rest there.
“Look, I realise I can come off as a bit abrupt but I have a very stressful job. I’ll try to be a little more conciliatory in the future.”
She looked relieved. “Thank you, Harry. I realise Mr Kontrell can be a very demanding boss…”
I didn’t let her finish. “Josie, you’ve only been with F A Kontrell for, what, a couple of months now? We’re an expanding business, so one should expect there to be a little pain.” Time for a little self deprecation. “That would be me,” I said with a cutesy finger wave.
Her giggle was delightful. So was the way she used her free hand to push a lock of shiny, black hair that had fallen across her face, back over her ear. Her other hand was still trapped beneath my own and she seemed in no particular hurry to retrieve it. I pulled my hand away and sat back in my chair.
“So, how are you finding it here? Are you glad you joined us?” I asked with a rare smile.
Josie smiled back. “Yes. Everybody is very nice and, like you say, it is very busy.”
“Yes,” I replied as I sat back and crossed my legs. “It’ll soon be the 23rd and then we can enjoy Christmas.”
Josie recrossed her own legs, flashing some deliciously tanned inside thigh. An idea came to me.
“Actually, I’m not really fond of the Secret Santa tradition. I never know what to get the person,” I sighed.
“Oh, well who have you got to buy for?” she asked.
I gave her a look of bemused befuddlement. “I can’t tell you that, it’s a secret.”
She frowned and thought for a moment, pulling her shoulders back just enough for me to see a hint of lacy bra, as the buttons on her blouse gaped.
“Without some idea of who it’s for… gift vouchers?” She offered apologetically.
I grimaced. “Oh god no, I get those every year.”
“You poor thing, that’s so boring.” Josie’s hand, the one I’d been touching, moved toward me.
“Maybe you can help me,” I mused, shifting my weight forward. I lent my elbows on the table and leaned in conspiritorially toward her. “You may have noticed the office here is predominantly female. Now I won’t confirm it’s a woman I have to buy a gift for but it’s a strong possibility. I’d like to get something more…personal,” I confided in a hushed tone.
“Aw, that’s really sweet,” she replied, leaning in closer and cocking her head to one side. “How about perfume? That’s personal and functional.”
“Perfume?” I appeared to weigh up the idea. “I don’t know, I like that idea but I wouldn’t know one perfume from another without asking first, and that would give the game away. I think I’d like to get this person something fun.”
“Chocolates,” she offered emphatically.
“Er, chocolates are fun?”
“You can never have too much fun with chocolate,” Josie replied with a wink.
Saucy minx! “Well, you’re lucky in that you have a lovely physique, Josie. Not everyone is as blessed as you,” I countered.
She blushed. Dear sweet Josie, I could have eaten her up right there and then.
“Okay then,” she continued, “it has to be personal, functional and definitely fun… although not chocolates or perfume.”
“How exactly are chocolates functional?” I asked with a quizzical lift of my eyebrows.
“Er, to have fun.”
“Right, I will remember that,” I replied with a low chuckle. “Personal, functional, fun…chocolate is optional. You’ve been a great help, Josie. Thank you.”
She stood up and I allowed my eyes to wander over her body for a moment, admiring the way her hipbones thrust forward and accentuated the tautness of her flat tummy. She could have been a model. She should have been a model. It’s not often an angel crosses your path.
“And you’ll apologise to Shazza?”
Would I fuck! “Of course. Consider it done.”
We left the room together. I held the door open with one hand, cradling the small of her back with the other as I ushered her out before me. She was a honey all right and I knew exactly what Secret Santa would be giving her this Christmas…
*******
Part three will be along at the start of next week, Dear Reader. Until then, have a Song…
*Ha! Good choice, Clicky… /thinks… this would be an ideal opportunity to remind Dear Reader they can get a copy of The Underdog Anthology immediately on Kindle…*
secret (n.) late 14c., from Latin secretus “set apart, withdrawn; hidden, concealed, private,” past participle of secernere “to set apart, part, divide; exclude,” from se-“without, apart,” properly “on one’s own” (see se-) + cernere “separate” (see crisis).
As an adjective from late 14c., from French secret, adjective use of noun. Open secret is from 1828. Secret agent first recorded 1715; secret service is from 1737; secret weapon is from 1936.
Dear Reader, I’m given to understand that sales of The Underdog Anthology have been ‘brisk’, which is very heartening – it’s an ideal stocking filler or Secret Santa gift…
*/sharp intake of breath… That’s a good idea, Clicky! I could definitely do that… /pats snout…*
I have a Christmas tale that I wrote for the ‘Christmas Underdog Anthology’, but that won’t now happen until next year. So here, Dear Reader, for your entertainment is the first installment of ‘Secret Santa’ by Roo B. Doo…
*******
I’d been watching her do the rounds all afternoon. She was shirking again, moving from desk to desk as slowly as she possibly could, irritating the hell out of everyone with her silly bloody ritual. Eventually, she got round to me. It was inevitable really. I gritted my teeth and braced myself for the explosion of seasonal bonhomie.
“Hi Harry! How’s it going?” Shazza gaily chirped from behind a stack of reports I’d neatly stacked along the edge of my desk. She was gripping some red velvet tat between nervous fat fingers.
“Shaz. What do you want?” I replied. For once my curtness was justified; I was actually quite busy formatting and pivoting tables on my computer screen.
Shazza briefly frowned but quickly recovered. “It’s Christmas in two weeks,” she smiled brightly, holding up her hands to reveal the tatty Santa hat she’d been holding.
“Really? Who’d have thought? Why don’t you come back in two weeks then?”
I really was very busy and not in the mood for another of the ‘bonding’ activities that the Fat Kontroller dreamed up to keep our airhead receptionist entertained. If you’re in need of a raffle, bake-off, dress up, dress down or sweepstake, especially if it’s for charity, then Shazza’s your man.
“Ooh, looks like we’ve found our Scrooge!” she squealed for the benefit of the entire office. “We all have to play our part, Harry,” she continued in that irritatingly positive sing-song voice of hers, “and I’ve been chosen to organise Secret Santa this year.”
I sat back in my chair and swivelled round to face her. “Sharon, you’re chosen to organise Secret Santa every year. Look, I’m up to my arse in it at the moment, I don’t have time for this shit.”
I must have hurt her feelings, because she suddenly came over all professional. “You are required to select a name from the hat to buy a gift for. Minimum £10 spend. Wrap and label it with your recipient’s name, and place in under the office tree, no later than 23rd December as they will distributed at the Christmas party at The Exchange that night.”
She thrust the Santa hat toward me. It was the same cheap hat she used last year. A threadbare velour Poundland job that was probably past its ‘sell by’ date on the day she bought it. Its fur trim was meant to be white but was tinged grey from the entry and exit of dozens of grimy wrists. I really didn’t want to put my hand in there, but the sooner I got it over with the sooner I’d get Shazza out of my face. I winced and took the plunge.
“You do know my great-grandfather was half Jewish, don’t you? Next year, Shaz, I’d appreciate it if you used a yamaka, so my cultural sensibilities aren’t infringed.”
The hat felt empty. I rummaged around until I felt a slip of folded paper that had worked its way down into the pointy end. I pulled it out, looked at it, and held it up for Shazza to see. “It says ‘Harry’,” I sighed.
“No! You have to buy for somebody else!” she cried, snatching back the hat and peering inside. Her dismay quickly diminished as she spied another slip of folded paper wedged in its grubby depths. She took it out and handed it to me.
I opened it out, read it, put it in my pocket and turned my attention back to my PC screen.
“Who did you get?” Shazza asked excitedly.
“It’s secret,” I replied, focusing on the numbers on my screen.
She looked crestfallen. “Don’t you want to know who’ll get you?”
I slid the slip of paper with my name on across the desk toward her. “No. Now piss off. We must be missing tons of important phone calls because you’re fannying about over here. We’re a very busy company. Chop, chop.”
Shazza scowled, turned on her heels and left. A few heads from neighbouring workstations bobbed up and quickly lowered. People walking away from my desk in a huff is not an uncommon event.
I thought about the name in my pocket. I hate the Secret Santa ritual – in the two years I’d been at the company I’d selected the Fat Kontroller from the hat on both occasions. The score so far was two bottles of malt whiskey for him and two £10 gift vouchers for me. They were from Boots and had all the hallmarks of an afterthought purchased whilst out buying haemorrhoid cream or a sandwich.
I hadn’t gotten my boss this year though. No, I’d picked out Josie’s name instead. Lithe limbed Josie in HR, with an elfin face, raven hair and legs up to her armpits. She was new to the company and the only honey in the office I’d even consider getting my fingers sticky with. Unfortunately, she came with baggage in the form of a muscle-bound boyfriend called Alfie, who chauffeured her to and from the office. With the visage of an Easter Island statue and phyisque large enough to affect gravity, Alfie would have no problem effecting profound change on the features of any love-struck suitor.
Still, an anonymous gift given legitimately might just open some doors, maybe some legs too. My mind began to whirl as I considered the possibilities. I checked the time: just 45 minutes until close of business. There was no point continuing with what I was doing now that Shazza had so inconsiderately shattered my concentration. A little Christmas gift web browsing might help me wind down and would, in all honesty and with hand on heart, be completely work-related…
*******
The second installment of ‘Secret Santa’ will follow in a couple of days. In the meantime, Dear Reader, have a Song…
At last! Dear Reader, the Underdog Anthology is available for you to read…
In paperback or on Kindle, even a hardcover version is available if you’re feeling rich and saucy…
32 stories by nine authors across a wide range of genres – most of which are certainly not suitable for children. Sex, violence, blood, gore, booze, drugs, cowboys and smoking – this book has it all. The first anthology of Underdogs contains something for everyone and a few things that are probably for nobody. It’s a lucky dip… If you’re feeling lucky.
*You what? …/concentrates on assistant’s clicks… No, really? What is it, fucking Christmas or something? …/sigh… No matter…*
Dear Reader, apparently if you avail yourself of the ‘Look Inside’ feature from Amazon, you will be able to read my three Anthology stories in full. However, if you want to find out what happens at the end of John Duffy’s story ‘The Wheel’, you will have to buy the book…
*Oh give over… /rolls eyes…*
*******
‘The Fall’ by Frank Davis
‘Til the Fat Lady Swings
“They’re at it again!”
John’s eyes briefly flicked up from his newspaper, taking in the bulk of his wife peering through the net curtains, before returning to yesterday’s racing results. You’re at it again, he thought but decided it was safer to respond with “Who are?”
“Next door.” Sheila pursed her lips. “They’re having another one of their gatherings,” she hissed.
Sheila craned up on the balls of her feet and twitched the curtain back further to get a better view. Oh how she wished they lived in something taller than a bungalow. The fence and bushes obscured most of the neighbour’s garden but she could just make out the tops of two heads moving toward the rear. Toward the shed. She could hear the low drone of their conversation but not their words. The shed door first creaked, then thumped.
She turned back toward her husband and snorted impatiently. “Are you listening to me? Next door have got people in their shed again. They’ll be burning things, you mark my words. Goodness knows what they’re up to.”
John put down the paper and reluctantly turned his attention to Sheila. It hurt to look at her; he had no idea where the beautiful, happy girl he’d married had gone to, but he suspected the spectacularly fat harridan stood in front of him had abducted and eaten her.
“I am, and I think you’re overreacting. In all likelihood it’s nothing. It’s just people living their lives.”
“Nothing?!” Sheila squealed incredulously. She brandished her notebook at him, the one she’d been detailing all their comings and goings in. “Strangers traipsing through the garden at all hours of the night, bonfires – that’s nothing? The noise and smoke? That’s nothing?” She resumed her watchful position at the window. Whatever the reasons for next door’s social gatherings, it was bound to be no good.
John caressed the plump armrest of the sofa with the palm of his hand. There was no point arguing with Sheila when she had a bonnet full of bees. He stood up and puffed out his cheeks. “I think I’ll go to The Crown.”
“Go on then, go. Leave me here alone with that lot,” Sheila spat out contemptuously to the retreating figure of John. She heard the front door rattle shut. “Coward!”
John stopped to light a cigarette before strolling into the balmy evening light. The sun was just setting and he was in no rush to get to the pub. Custom at The Crown had dwindled a lot in recent years, especially in the winter months, but there might be some in tonight. He lived in hope. In any case it was better than sitting at home with Sheila and her paranoid fantasies. Just about.
His hopes were dashed as he stubbed out the last of his smoke and entered the cool interior of the pub. In one corner a group of teenage boys stood huddled round the fruit machine, whooping and smashing buttons. In another, Tom and Barry sat silently nursing their pints, but apart from them The Crown was empty except for Alice. The landlady stood behind the bar, dressed to her usual nines, polishing glasses. She saw John and smiled broadly.
“Evening John. Usual?”
John sat on a bar stool and watched Alice pour him a pint. She always looked good, despite her advancing years. Fitter than Sheila, who was half her age. “Quiet in here,” he said. “It’s a lovely night, I thought it would be busier.”
Alice frowned and cocked her head. “No darling, just the boys’ brigade and dad’s army in tonight.” She set a full glass in front of John and took the fiver from his hand. “I’m not going to be able to retire to the Algarve on them.”
John pulled deeply on the frothy liquid; Alice always pulled a good pint.
Her long, manicured fingers wrapped round his wrist as she gave him his change. “Say, I’m dying for a whiz and a fag, John. You wouldn’t keep an eye on the bar for me whilst I pop upstairs? Len’s off night fishing, so I’m on my tod.”
Alice disappeared and John surveyed his local. Time was when The Crown had full time bar staff, and Len and Alice would sit out with the customers all evening. A time when the fruit machine’s pings and whirls were mere background noise and the kids with soft drinks sat outside. Now they made do between the two of them, with occasional staff at the weekend. For Len and Alice, Portugal couldn’t come too soon.
John sighed and sipped his pint. He was wrong; this was worse than being at home with Sheila. She may be a bit crazy but this felt like sitting in a rotting corpse. At that thought, the fruit machine burst into a frenzy, pumping out a stream of dirty coins to the teenagers’ delight.
Jackpot! John sneered to himself.
When Alice returned he bid farewell to her bright, stiff smile, and tried to ignore the hurt in her eyes that he was leaving so soon.
“Sorry Al, I only came in for one. I’ve got to get home to Sheila.”
John shrugged and laughed with embarrassment. “She thinks next door are domestic terrorists or something. I dunno.”
“Didn’t she think they were devil worshipers?” Alice tried to entice him to stay with her playful reply but John was resolved to leave.
“No, that was last week. Next week they’ll be cannibals.”
Happy to leave on Alice’s bark of amusement, John waved from the doorway before lighting a cigarette for the return journey. Darkness was now falling but the night remained warm. With any luck Sheila would be in bed by the time he got home. If he walked slowly enough.
Sheila wasn’t asleep when John got back. As he turned the corner of his road, he spotted her rapping smartly on the neighbour’s front door. He stopped and quickly retreated; he didn’t think she’d seen him.
“Fuck!” John whispered furiously to himself. The last thing he needed was Sheila making a scene. For a moment he wished he’d stayed in the pub. He decided to sneak a peek and caught sight of his wife’s ample rear entering next door’s house. The door closed and John breathed out heavily, unaware he’d been holding his breath.
What to do? John lit another cigarette and considered his options. He could go back to the pub and come back later. Sure, Alice would be pleased to see him, but he’d already used Sheila as an excuse to leave. No, best get home unnoticed and feign ignorance when she returned from her rant. Finishing his smoke, John walked briskly home, hands in pockets and head bowed, as if it somehow made him invisible.
Safely inside, he rushed to Sheila’s favourite position, the lounge window overlooking the garden. Parting the net curtain, he peered out.
There was nothing to see – just the garden, fence and bushes. And the roof of next door’s shed. He took a step back when he heard its door creak and thud.
Tired of the drama, John slumped down on the sofa and felt something dig into his backside. He pulled Sheila’s spiral-bound notebook out from under his bum and opened it. He’d not looked at it before; she always kept it close.
The room was dark but he could make out his wife’s neat block capital writing against the white pages. He flicked through them with growing dismay. Times, dates and descriptions gave way to suspicions, theories, lamentations and solutions. Sudden fear gripped John’s stomach as he read the last entry:
ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!!!
“Oh, you’re home early.” Sheila’s greeting was flat but her eyes looked white with surprise against the gore streaking her face. John shrieked and turned in his seat, pointing at the bloody weapon in her hand.
“It’s next door’s axe for cutting up firewood,” Sheila stated dully.
John cringed away as his wife waddled past, on toward the window. Sticky fingers smeared the net curtain as she twitched it aside.
“It’s okay now, John.” Sheila reassured him as her eyes scanned the garden. “We don’t have to worry about the neighbours and their smoke any more.”
*******
There, Dear Reader, my efforts are quite tame compared to the rest of the stories in the first Anthology volume from the Underdogs. No, it’s really not a book for children at all…
fridge (n.)shortened and altered form of refrigerator, 1926, an unusual way of word-formation in English; perhaps influenced by Frigidaire (1919), name of a popular early brand of self-contained automatically operated iceless refrigerator (Frigidaire Corporation, Detroit, Michigan, U.S.), a name suggesting Latin frigidarium “a cooling room in a bath.” Frigerator as a colloquial shortening is attested by 1886.
Dear Reader, this week I’ve encountered the word ‘fridge’ four times from different online chums. The first was a conversation between Red Frank and TNT over at MEROVEE…
The following day, Leggy’s significant other, Poppy mentioned it during a girlie Twitter DM convo…
Later that evening, Hugo and I were chatting on Twitter DM about the back cover artwork The Underdog Anthology. He has two stories included.
I mentioned the importance of the number nine in Norse mythology and Hugo replied with a we-key link to the plot of a book I’ve never read…
Dirk Gently, who calls himself a “holistic detective”, has happened upon what he thinks is a rather comfortable situation. A wealthy man in the record industry has retained him, spinning a story about being stalked by a seven-foot-tall, green-eyed, scythe-wielding monster. Dirk pretends to understand the man’s ravings involving potatoes and a contract signed in blood coming due; when in reality, Dirk is musing about what he might do if he actually receives payment for his “services” – such as getting rid of his refrigerator, which is so filthy inside that it has become the centrepiece of a show-down between himself and his cleaning woman. The seriousness of his client’s claims becomes clear when Dirk arrives several hours late for an appointment to find a swarm of police around his client’s estate. The aforementioned client is found in a sealed and heavily barricaded room, his head neatly removed several feet from his body and rotating on a turn-table. While at his recently deceased client’s house, he discovers that his client had a son. However, after Dirk disconnects the television set the boy had been watching, the boy promptly breaks Dirk’s nose.
Nearly incapacitated by guilt, Dirk resolves to take his now-late client’s wild claims seriously. During his investigation, Gently encounters exploding airport check-in counters, the gods of Norse mythology, insulting horoscopes, a sinister nursing home, a rhino-phagic eagle, an I Chingcalculator (to which everything calculated above the value of 4 is apparently ‘a suffusion of yellow’), a god who gives his powers to a lawyer and an advertising executive in exchange for clean linen, and an attractive American woman who gets angry when she can’t get pizzadelivered in London.
Finally, yesterday afternoon, Cade included the word and the importance of chilling in one of his Sync Miss For Him scribblings…
*I know, Clicky… I don’t know what it means either, but you put a link to ‘Fools Gold’ in our Calendar Girl post at the start of this week…*
“What are you looking for?” I asked Thing 2’s backside upon entering the kitchen. The rest of him was concealed behind the open fridge door; a common enough sight these days that it’s practically a fixture.
“Nothing,” Kit Kat grunted in reply. Closing the door he turned to face me, and I wondered, not for the first time, at how a tiny little baby could turn into the hulking teenager stood before me now. He popped his backside up easily onto the kitchen worktop. “I’m doing maths homework,” he said.
“Really? In the fridge? I’m gonna make your father some scrambled eggs on toast. Would you like some?”
Kit Kat tried to play it cool but the ‘Food!’ sparkle in his eyes gave him away. “Erm…alright then.”
The response from Thing 1 upon being asked was entirely different. “Oh yes please. Thank you Mum!” Loopy said brightly before turning his attention back to his game. “Okay Deadly, do as I tell you this time and we’ll get ’em for sure,” he barked into his microphone.
Returning to Thing 2’s favourite room, I decided to enlist his help. “You know the fridge?” I asked him.
“Yeesss…” Kit Kat drawled. “I am familiar with the appliance.”
“Can you get me the eggs, butter and milk from it? I’ll cook the eggs, you do the toast and you can tell me about your homework.” I bent down to pull the toaster out from the cupboard under the sink.
Amazingly he returned with everything I asked for and set about toasting the bread. I cracked nine eggs into a mixing bowl, added a dollop of milk and a pinch of salt.
“We’re doing quadratic equations,” Kit Kat informed me as I set about beating up the mixture.
I stopped my beating to melt the butter in a pan. “Algebra?”
“Yes,” he replied and then starting reeling off a bunch of gobbledygook containing a lot of ‘xs’, ‘pluses’, ‘overs’ and numbers that made no sense to me at all, except to evoke a distant memory of the perpetually smiling face of Mr Fong, my Form and Maths Teacher from school. I concentrated on transforming to pale yellow mixture, now transferred to the oily, hot pan, into fluffy, golden, eggy clouds.
“Doesn’t quadratic have something to do with four?” I asked when Kit Kat paused for breath. He was still applying a thin layer of butter, precisely from corner to corner to the first slices of toast to have pop out of the toaster.
I sighed, put down the pan and grabbed another knife. Quickly I slavered the cooling remainder of the toast with deft strokes of buttery goodness. “I’m sorry Kitten, I haven’t done algebra for over 30 years, I don’t think I can help you with your homework,” I said dishing the buttered toast out onto three plates and piling even portions of scrambled eggs over the top.
“I wasn’t asking for your help, Mater,” he said with a look of bemusement. “Can you pass me the ketchup?”
Yes, Dear Reader, The Underdog Anthology is well on nigh…
*I am not a princess, Clicky! …/looks aghast… *
*/sniff… Sandwich Queen, maybe… Now stop interrupting me…*
Anyway, as I was saying, Dear Reader, The Underdog Anthology will be published very soon…
*No, Clicky, my pen name’s Roo B. Doo… sounds like RooBeeDoo…*
*Yeah well I’m rather more fond of a shamble than Tiff… /shoos away assistant… Now, stop butting in…*
Leggy, the Underdog, is keen not to make the cover too attractive to children. Personally, I think the little buggers could do with reading the superbly written horror, sex and violence that unfolds inside…
*/Squints… It’s his pub, Clicky… Leggy’s the gaffer and I fully respect that… Now fuck off for a minute, I want to put the poem in…*
Recently I joined Arse-about-Facebook and was pleasantly surprised to see that a former colleague had added photos of what had been a little project I’d managed at the start of the 21st Century: The Staff Calendar. Having newly joined the company, it proved to be an excellent way to find out the full extent of the services offered to clients, and some of the faces that implemented those services, ensuring their smooth running.
It started one day as I sat behind Big Boss’s desk. He was out and about, as was his norm, so I taken the opportunity to eat my lunch in his cool, dark office. I was searching for some scrap paper to catch the salady drips that escaped my ham salad sarnie (extra onion, extra mayo) when I realised that the page I’d scavenged wasn’t scrap at all. It contained several hand-drawn, rough sketches with interesting punny titles: ‘Reservoir Bogs’; ‘Lock Stock & Two Smoking Vaccums’; ‘Not Everything in Black & White is Read’ and ‘You’re Gonna Need a Bigger Skip’.
I wiped the crumbs and sandwich filling gloop from the page as best I could, and after I’d finished eating took it back to my own desk, where I filed it in my ‘Bring Forward’ system, so that I could ask Big Boss about it the next time he ventured in.
“Oh, it’s just some ideas I’ve had for a staff calendar,” he told me a week later. “I think it would be a fun way of marketing what we do that includes the staff.”
I agreed and twenty minutes later, we’d thought up half a dozen more ideas. Big Boss’s face, which had looked tired and pinched on arrival at the office that morning, now looked light and boyish. He instructed me to find a graphic design company that could advise us on feasibility and cost, before he set out again for an afternoon with clients and potential clients in back-to-back meetings.
Coincidentally, the graphic design company I’d selected had been the recipient of high praise at a social gathering Big Boss had attended the evening before I met with him, to give him an update on my search. I hadn’t heard of synchronicity then, but he gave me the go ahead to get the calendar made.
Over the next couple of months I worked with Big Boss and the graphic design company to refine the images, buy props and hire costumes, prep staff members to be involved and then get them to the studio for photography, hold their clothing, not peek when asked, make the teas and coffees, and then select the best images for inclusion, layout of each page and quality of the paper it would be printed on. It was a meaty project and I relished getting my teeth into it.
“We should have a party to launch the calendar,” Big Boss decreed after the first nude photo shoot, obviously buoyed up with the way it was going. “Invite the staff and clients.”
“And client secretaries,” I suggested. “They’ll be the ones that receive the calendars first and dish them out.”
He liked that idea. “Tate Modern owes us a favour or two, I’ll get us room there for the evening.” Big Boss could be quite persuasive.
And so, organising the launch party, sending invites, creating a presentation and buy thoughtful gifts to say ‘thank you’ to the staff involved was added to my list of things to do. Thoughtful Man helped me select and obtain the music that would accompany the revealing of each image in an animated Powerpoint show. I’d barely used Powerpoint before, let alone animate anything with it; it was a learning curve that held me in good stead for the rest of my career thereafter.
I didn’t compère the show – Big Boss did that; he’s an extremely accomplished public speaker. I ran the slide show and cued the music. The evening was a great success.
We had 13 months in our calendar; when you work in logistics you tend to plan just a little bit ahead… Clicky on each image to hear the accompanying Song 😉
Dear Reader, this past month has been a most peculiar one…
wibble (v.) 1871, from wibble-wobble (1847), a colloquial reduplication of wobble (v.).
*I don’t think it’s just me, Clicky… Others have been feeling peculiartoo…*
wobble (v.) 1650s, wabble, probably from Low German wabbeln “to wobble;” cognate with Old Norse vafla “hover about, totter,” related to vafra “move unsteadily,” from Proto-Germanic *wab- “to move back and forth,” perhaps from PIE *webh- “to weave” (see waver). Form with -o- is from 1851. Related: Wobbled; wobbling. The noun is attested from 1690s.
*Interesting! Tell me, did you look at the possible… probably root of the word ‘wobble‘, Clicky?
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
[Stevie Smith]
*I posted a comment about ‘the hand wavers’ yesterday at The Slog …/looks perplexed… Oh it still doesn’t seem to have appeared…*
*Bugger! … /sad face… How disappointing, Clicky… I pointed out how smokers are right here in front everyone’s faces, but people are conditioned to wave both us and our grievances away… It was awfully clever in a “Can you see what it is yet?” sort of way… I mean, it’s not white, heterosexuals of sound mind who are bearing the brunt of the bans… Although we, too, are affected, rich and poor…*
*Mind you,JaxtheFirstmade an very interesting observation last night., Clicky.. how the Anti Smoking hand-wavers have distanced themselves with their hatred and intolerance… This ‘War on Tobacco’ they’ve been waging for these past 400 years… /clucks dismissively… Are they waving-waving or waving-drowning?*
warble (v.) late 14c., from Old North French werbler “to sing with trills and quavers” (Old French guerbloiier), from Frankish *werbilon (cognate with Old High German wirbil “whirlwind,” German Wirbel “whirl, whirlpool, tuning peg, vertebra,” Middle Dutch wervelen “to turn, whirl”); see whirl (v.). Related: Warbled; warbling. The noun is recorded from late 14c.
laud (v.)”praise highly, sing the praises of,” late 14c., from Old French lauder “to praise, extol,” from Latin laudare “to praise, commend, honor, extol, eulogize,” from laus (genitive laudis) “praise, fame, glory.” Probably from an echoic PIE root *leu- and cognate with Old English leoð “song, poem, hymn,” from Proto-Germanic *leuthan (source also of Old Norse ljoð “strophe,” German Lied “song,” Gothic liuþon “to praise”). Related: Lauded; lauding.
nose (v.)”perceive the smell of,” 1570s; “pry, search,” 1640s, from nose (n.). Related: Nosed; nosing.
watt (n.) unit of electrical power, 1882, in honor of James Watt (1736-1819), Scottish engineer and inventor. The surname is from an old pet form of Walter and also is in Watson.
Walter masc. proper name, from Old North French Waltier (Old French Gualtier, Modern French Gautier), of Germanic origin and cognate with Old High German Walthari, Walthere, literally “ruler of the army,” from waltan “to rule” (see wield) + hari “host, army” (see harry). Walter Mitty (1939) is from title character in “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” by U.S. short story writer James Thurber (1894-1961).
*******
Sunday evening and all was quiet in the Library: Thoughtful Man was out working the mean streets of Southend; Things 1 & 2 were busy online making war and making friends, and our living, breathing hot water bottle was diligently practicing for any future, upcoming Sleep event at the Olympics. Poppy lay curled, molded around my backside, under my thick woolen cardie, snoozing and warming the small of my back. I’ve often mused how, dooshounds are more feline than canine. Well, ours is anyway.
Chores completed for the day (at least until the return of a weary Thoughtful Man), I was luxuriating in space and time, skipping through universes that I access via my book, listening to pictures and feeling out the sharp edge of words in conversations.
I wasn’t alone: Clicky was with me, of course, accompanied by the dynamic duo, Cath Fine and her significant other Nick O’Teen. All remained steadfastly to hand as I flitted and floated, fleetly fleed and flied, feeling roam free.
The telephone rang, causing Poppy to poke a curious nose out from under the cardigan she was using as a tent.
“Alright darling?” Thoughtful Man voice piped through, “I’ve just dropped off in Laindon and thought I’d come home now.”
I wasn’t disappointed: Laindon is a good fare. “Okay sweetie. We’ll have dinner when you get back.”
“Yeah, I won’t be long. Listen,” he paused, ” I’ve had an idea for a smoker you can write your next post about.”
I was momentarily nonplussed; Thoughtful Man doesn’t usually read my wibblings. “What? Who?”
“Slush,” he said. Now I was really confused and repeated the name back to him.
“No, Slash. The guitarist from Guns N’ Roses,” he replied.
I thought for a moment and tried to picture the personage in my mind. “Curly black hair, wears sunglasses and top hat?”
“That’s the one,” Thoughtful Man confirmed. “He smokes on stage, sticks his cigarette in end of his guitar. There’s bound to be lots of photos of him smoking.”
I took a drag of Nick and a slurp of Cath, and briefly pondered his suggestion. Clicky, always quick off the mark, got busy. “But you don’t like Guns n Roses,” I answered. Well, he doesn’t.
“No, but I think you should do one on somebody that’s not dead. Look we’ll talk about it when I get home. Do you fancy pizza?”
Pizza! I crossed ‘washing up’ off my mental list of potential future chores, happily agreed with his suggestion, and rang off after an embarrassing number of ‘byes’ that’s really more associated with first flush of romance rather than 26 years into a stretch.
“Pizza?” came the mournful voice of Thing 1 from the darkened nook of the Library, “Can’t we have Chinese?”
*******
Dear Reader, I’m not gonna do Slash. He gave up smoking in 2009 after his mum died. He fails the ‘Bravery’ criteria. But I do like the idea of profiling somebody alive… Thoughtful Man, a firm anti-monarchist, will probably hate me for this butt…
Okay, okay, I freely admit, he’s no Barry Sheene, but he is alive and still smoking, and as for the fifth criteria, well, he did cause an interesting stink…
*I dunno, Clicky, it’s a bit weak… /bites nail… And Thoughtful Man really doesn’t like royalty… /spits… It could all hinge on the Song… What do you reckon?*
benchmark (n.)also bench-mark, “surveyor’s point of reference,” 1838, from a specialized surveyors’ use of bench (n.) + mark (n.1); figurative sense is from 1884.
An online friend, who’d spent the day in Birmingham, sent me through a photograph and a trivia question yesterday evening…
“Zoom in to the area below the centre of the visor of Barry Sheene’s 1976 helmet. What do you spot? And for 10 points, what was its purpose?”
As I was sitting up in bed at the time – Thoughtful Man and I were catching up on a saved episode of ‘Pointless’ (I’d just got a Pointless Answer with Rutherford B. Hayes…/buffs nails) – and my iPad would only blow the image up so far, I decided to give it a good, hard stare and hazard a wild guess…
I was hopelessly wrong of course, but my friend is nothing if not incredibly kind…
“Close, but no cigar. Sheene was a chain smoker, so he drilled that hole in his helmet so he could have a few drags on the race start-line immediately before the flag fell. It’s sad, I bet only a handful of Suzuki staff & visitors would even realise that hole existed in one of their historic exhibits.”
We wrote about the Bonhams Stafford auction a few weeks back and pulled out our pick of the products then.
Top of our list – aside from the many, many motorcycles that we would have loved to have been able to drop some pound notes on – was the 1974 Bell race helmet that is said to have been worn by Barry Sheene during his infamous Daytona crash in the same year.
It was up for sale at the weekend with a reserve price of just £5000; and even at this amount it was way past our budget. But it eventually sold for £15,625 (including sales premium).
Not too bad for a lid that’s over 35 year’s old, is scuffed out of recognition and even has a hole drilled into the front chin-guard for a cheeky cigarette!
If Dear Reader is at all unfamiliar with Barry/\Sheene, there now follows a short information film, detailing the bad breaks that befell him in pursuit of his racing dreams…
Just what I’ve come to expect of a smoker in these Times of official sounding statements like ‘SMOKING WILL KILL YOU’ and ‘YOUR LITTLE DOG, TOO‘ – Bravery and Sexiness… Don’t believe me on the amount he smoked?
Then my online pal went and sent through two more attributes I constantly find in the majority of smokers that I encounter: Generosity and Cleverness…
“Another factoid about Sheene: In his early days of racing, the leathers riders wore were simply that. Just leather. A number of riders broke their back during a crash, and Sheene considered the visors on his helmet. He got 8-10 of them and wired them up like the armour on an armadillo – They’d be flexible in one direction & rigid in the opposite direction. It worked, and he literally gave away his ‘invention’ to Italian leathers maker Dainese http://www.dainese.com/en_en/timeline/#time_2 “
Bravery, Sexiness, Cleverness, Generosity and a certain X Factor (in Mr Sheene’s case, his smell), it occurred to me that these would be fine criteria to judge others by…
So, if Dear Reader has any suggestions for recipients of the title ‘Smokin’ Smoker’, please let me know in the comments and I would be happy to consider…
*/ponders… Is that Have a Song, Clicky, or are you making a suggestion?*
*By George, I think he’s got it… /smiles broadly…*
