Breakfast Embed Part 1 – Ova Easty

Dear Reader, I hate to be the one to inform you of this, but the task has fallen to me to inform you of that, which you do not know. Hang on a sec…

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*wtf was that noise? Nope…no one there. Musta been the wind …/me shrugs…*

Anyway, erm, where was I? OH YEAH!!! Tragedy has befallen RooBeeDoo, and she appears to have lost her fucking mind. Mainly because she asked me to write the opening and closing bits of a post or two. And who am I, you might ask? My name is Mr. Slimey, but I don’t mind if you call me Mr. S.

Begging your pardon, but would you mind hanging on again for one more moment? I shan’t be long.

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* Hmmm…that’s weird. Strange noises, strange events, but no space dolphin to be found anywhere. How odd…*

The story that follows is a story written by RooBeeDoo called The Inchoate Egg, and it’s a good one. I know it’s a good story because I’ve read it. Good? Nah…it’s great. A great story, that I now present it to you without much further delay. Just gotta close all these random opening doors.

Enjoy your read, and catch ya on the flipside.

*******

airplane glance

*Aww… Nice work with the doors btw, Clicky… /pats snout… Cade’s got a story in the next Anthology… /scratches nose… ’bout a door or sumfin’…*

Thank you, Cade ❤

Dear Reader, as it’s nearly Easter, I thought I’d post my second story from ‘The Underdog Anthology II: Tales The Hollow Bunnies Tell’, last year’s Easter-themed, collective offering

*Oh I thought it would be fun, Clicky… /lights up… if Cade provided bread… /drags… and I provided the filling for a Missive sammich… /streams smoke…*

I’ve split it in two, so ‘The Inchoate Egg’ will be concluded in a following post. Hopefully today…

*/squints… ‘Vanillin’? …/flicks ash… Do you think they mean vanilla, Clicky? …/shrugs…*

… If not, then tomorrow. Enjoy! 😀

The Inchoate Egg

by Roo B. Doo

“Patience is a virtue, Harry,” Payroll Pammy chimed as she glided past the elevator on the way to the kitchen, carrying a tray of empty mugs. I was inside the lift, gnashing my teeth while I waited for the doors of the ancient mechanism to close. Pammy evidently shared the consensus opinion of the minions at F A Kontrell, that the elevator to our 5th floor offices is ‘very slow’.

More like fucking glacial, I fumed, as I stood over the control panel and angrily jabbed at the ‘door close’ button, each jab accompanied by an entreaty to “close, you fucking bastard.” Slowly, the door halves started their whiny crawl toward each other and were just about to touch when a smooth, tanned hand, topped with exquisitely polished pink fingernails, halted their long awaited reunion by adroitly sliding between them.

“Hold the lift, please!”

I recognised both the hand and voice, and my chest tightened at the thought of being in close proximity with the office goddess I’d lusted after. I felt a tinge of fear too, if I’m honest, as the last time we’d been alone together hadn’t exactly worked out that well for me. Josie looked surprised to see me lurking in the corner of the lift, finger still hovering over the ‘door close’ button. It must have looked as if I were deliberately trying to shut her out.

“Oh, hello Harry,” she said sheepishly. She moved to the opposite corner at the back of the lift, putting as much distance between us as she could. “How are you?”

“I’ve been worse.”

The words hung between us and I wondered if, like me, she was remembering the night several months ago when Alfie, her brick shithouse of a boyfriend, had tried to kill me over a misunderstanding. He came home from work unexpectedly and thought I was trying to debauch his girl with an obscene Secret Santa gift. As If!

Of course I had been trying to gain access to the fair Josie’s knickers, but not with anything so crass as the oversized sex toy that Alfie had seized upon. I’d been using an entirely more tasteful gift, targeting Josie’s weakness for chocolate. It was classy and it had nearly worked too.

I turned back to the control panel and resumed my button jabbing, minus the swearing. For once the lift doors effortlessly glided together first time with barely a murmur, sealing us in. The lift compensated for the unexpected quiet efficiency with a gut flipping jolt before starting its grindingly slow journey downwards.

Well this is awkward, I thought.

Josie and I hadn’t really spoken since that night. She’d been avoiding me and my ardour had been tempered somewhat by the painfully real threat of a good hiding from her boyfriend. Mr Kontrell, a.k.a. the Fat Kontroller, had called me a ‘Good Egg’ after I’d declined to press charges – so reluctant was he to see his company dragged through the mud that he offered me a substantial pay rise in return for keeping my mouth shut.

It was an offer I was happy to accept. Besides, I didn’t want to sabotage any future chance with Josie by being the cause of her boyfriend being locked up, no matter how much the animal deserved it. That I’d survived Alfie’s ire at all was entirely down to the girl herself, who’d stop his murderous rampage with a substantial kick to his bollocks. I only wished I’d been conscious to see it.

The silence between us was deafening over the groaning lift mechanism. I decided to break it. “So, are you bunking off early?”

I turned toward Josie and she smiled back shyly. Fuck, but she is beautiful, I thought, and felt my stomach flutter. I smiled back, drinking in the delicacy of her elfin features framed by glossy, black hair, and not to mention a smoking hot body that would cause Elle McPherson to weep. To think, I’d been that close to sticking my tongue down her throat.

“Yes, kind of,” she replied, “I’ve been asked to attend the county-wide business awards ceremony tonight, so I’m going to work from home this afternoon.”

I took a sharp intake of breath. “The one at the civic centre?” I asked slowly. What the fuck!

“Yes,” Josie hesitated, “Shazza’s asked me if I’d go. Apparently one of the guests can’t make it now.”

“Oh right.” I nodded slowly and tried to keep my voice neutral, “we’re up for ‘Green Business of the Year’. I wrote our submission.”

“Are you going as well?” Josie asked with surprise. There was that awkwardness again and we hadn’t even passed the 3rd floor yet.

“Well yeah, that’s why I’m bunking off. I’ve booked the afternoon off so that I’ve got plenty of time to get ready and arrive before our guests do,” I explained calmly whilst fuming inside. I’d only just left the office, for fuck’s sake! What client? When did they pull out and why the fuck hadn’t our jumped up bitch of a receptionist told me about it? It was my event to organise after all, not Shazza’s. “Did Sharon give you any more detail?”

“Only the dress code and start time.” Josie gently gnawed at her bottom lip with perfect white teeth. “Harry, about what happened at Christmas…”

“It’s not necessary, Josie,” I said holding up a hand. “It was a misunderstanding.”

The slowest lift in Christendom was about to creak past the first floor and now she wanted to talk. “I’m not…” she trailed off. “You know…”

“A raving chocoholic? Yeah you are.” I winked at her. “Look, what’s done is done. I’m happy if we can remain friends.” It was a lie but what could I do?

She looked relieved and I felt relieved we’d finally reached the ground floor. I held back and let Josie leave. One, it occurred to me that Alfie, who chauffeured her to and from work, might be waiting outside, and it probably wasn’t a good idea for him to see us emerge from the building together. And two, I had a bit of unfinished business to attend to.

“I’m just gonna go back up and see Shazza,” I explained when Josie turned round to see if I was following. “I’d better find out who’s dropped out and if there’s anything else she’s neglected to tell me.”

“Okay, I’ll see you later tonight then, Harry.” She gave me that shy smile again and left.

I waited until she was out of earshot. “Yes!” I hissed under my breath and punched the air before returning to jab at the lift buttons once again. “Come on you bastard, close!”

Quel surprise! Shazza wasn’t manning the reception desk, the job she was paid to do but seldom bothered with. When I did find her, she was sitting in my chair, at my desk, looking rapturously up at the Fat Kontroller, who in return was getting an eyeful of her lumpy tits. There really isn’t enough mind bleach in the world to purge me of that horrific mental tableaux. I resisted the impulse to retch.

“What’s this I hear, Josie’s going tonight?” I walked up and sat on my desk between the two of them.

“Ah Harry! I was just going over tonight’s guest list with Shazza,” the Fat Kontroller said, looking a little flustered. And why not? I’d just caught him ogling our fat receptionist’s cleavage. Dirty old fuck – Shaz is at least half his age.

“So who’s pulled out?” I plucked the guest list from Shazza’s hand, looked at it and put it down beside me. “And when did we know?”

“Phil Gutteridge and not that long ago,” Shazza answered defensively.

“That’s my fault, Harry,” the Fat Kontroller added. “I thought you’d gone for the day so I asked Sharon to invite Josie.”

“Okay. But why can’t he make it?” Shit! Phil is one of our more reliable clients, an absolutely corker of a guest for these sort of shindigs. He never passed up an offer of free grub and booze, and watching him eat and drink was a sight to behold, like a ravenous Serengeti lion attacking a gazelle carcass – worthy of David Attenborough narration.

“He broke his arm at the gym this morning,” the Fat Kontroller continued. “Running on the treadmill, apparently. He missed his mouth taking a big gulp of water. Slipped in the resulting puddle and down he went.”

I clamped a hand over my mouth to subdue a laugh – Phil isn’t the smallest of men, or healthiest. “Damn! I warned him about gyms. And drinking water.”

But the Fat Kontroller wasn’t finished. “I’m afraid Mrs Kontrell won’t be able to make it now either.”

“No. Is your wife poorly again?” I asked with deep concern.

“Yes, she has one of her heads on.” At least the Fat Kontroller had the decency to look embarrassed trotting out the familiar excuse. It was uncanny how often the chain smoking, soap opera addicted Mrs K pulled out of company events due to having ‘one of her heads on’. In the two and a half years I’d worked for the Fat Kontroller, I hadn’t met her once.

“So who are we going to get to replace her? A client?” I asked him. I was purposefully not including Shazza in the conversation, but now, from the corner of my eye, I caught her suddenly sitting up straighter, a simpering grin replacing the petulant pout on her face. Oh no, I thought. No, please, not Shaz!

“During Easter school holidays? No, it’s much too short notice to ask any other clients now,” the Fat Kontroller opined. “Happily young Sharon has offered to step into the breach.” He flourished his hand toward a beaming Shazza.

Oh fuck! That was all I needed, having a sneering, drunken Shazza, making sly digs at me all evening and googly eyes at the Fat Kontroller. “Are you sure there’s no one else we could ask? Tonight is kind of a big deal for F A Kontrell. What about Phil’s deputy?”

To give him credit, the Fat Kontroller did look as if he were seriously considering my suggestion, but I could tell that ship had already sailed. Still, it felt good to see Shazza’s grin falter and disappear again. She threw me a malevolent look, which I returned with raised eyebrows and condescending smile. Squirm bitch!

“No, I think we’ll stick with the revised line up,” the Fat Kontroller decided. “Although it probably won’t do us any harm to have a couple of beautiful additions on our table.” He winked at Shazza who visibly preened.

Ugh! I mentally grimaced, I fucking hope you’re referring to Josie and Shaz and not just to Shazza’s tits!

“Right. I’ll make sure not to tell Mrs K that…” If I ever get to meet her. I gave the Fat Kontroller a friendly nudge. God knows he deserved it for the mental abuse inflicted by his flirting with Shazza. As for our ambitious receptionist, I hadn’t forgiven her yet for the role she played in my Christmas beating – it was her inappropriate Secret Santa gift to me that Alfie had taken offence at.

“I’ll make up the new place cards for the table,” Shazza said, peering at the guest list on the desk. “Zander Rhodes? The fashion designer’s gonna be on our table?”

“Zandra Rhodes is a fashion designer, Shaz” I said barely able to keep the contempt out of my voice. “Zander Rhodes, however, works for Green Crusaders. They’re an environmental charity we’ve been tapping up.”

“Networking with, Harry,” the Fat Kontroller corrected me with a chuckle. “I met him at a function in the City. Nice lad, very driven. There’s some synergy there that could be mutually beneficial.”

That’s what I said – tapping up! I thought with a mental sigh. I got up to leave, “Well, alright then, if you and Shaz have got it all under control, I shall take my afternoon off now and bugger off home. See you both later.”

This time I decided to forego the extended lift experience and took the stairs.

Will the Fat Kontroller win his the prize? Does Harry pull? Will Josie allow it? And how much drink can Shazza safely handle?

*The spread… /stubs butt…*

… Find out next time. Now, ova to Cade…

*******

I apologize for all the strangeness and strange events Dear Reader. I’ve not a clue what is going on with all the self-opening doors. Next thing you know, windows will be opening entirely on their own, and entire houses may suddenly be prone to levitation. Excuse me one more moment if you please…

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*all kinds of unusual shit going on to be sure, but nothing really…”out of the ordinary”…per se /me scratches chin…*

Meh…I’ll see to that in a minute. But I’m confident that we’ll get, whatever this is, worked out to a logical conclusion. We may even stumble across some help and helpers along the way.

helphasalmostarrived
*no…that’s more along the lines of “professional help”, so I think their particular services are unlikely… /me looks around for anything…fishy…*

And on that note…let’s cue us up a song.

Mating Dance

It’s Mother’s Day today, Dear Reader…

*Yeah, Clicky, that so reminds me of mum… /lights up…*

I’ve not been about much as I’m settling into my new job and editing some short stories submissions for the next Underdog Anthology

Two Finger Salute

*That’s right, number 5… /drags… *

… And struggling to write a submission of my own. So, I thought I’d post an extract from Mother’s scribblings, to see if it can’t get my own creative juices flowing…

*Fingers crossed, Clicky… /flicks ash… fingers crossed…*

*******

Extract from ‘A Family History for Ruth and Julia (Gawd ‘Elp Us!**)’, a.k.a. ‘The Ma Papers’ by Judith Eileen Newton (formerly Shewan, née Packer)

My cousin Margaret and I used to go to a dance hall at Catford called The Savoy. It was really classy compared with Victor Sylvester’s. It was later renamed Mr Smith’s and was closed down after a fatal shooting, and I read in a crime book that the shooting was to do with the Richardson gang.

The Savoy had a member’s bar downstairs, and typically for the time, only men could be members; women could only be guests. Our main aim was to meet a man who was a member so that you could enter the inner sanctum so to speak. It was a really weird sight on a Saturday night because the main dance floor was virtually empty except for girls until about 10 o’clock. They would be dancing together and waiting for the boys – who by now were well oiled having been downstairs drinking all evening – to appear, ready to pull.

To have a long term boyfriend that was a club member enabled you to bypass the upstairs dance floor and go straight downstairs with your bloke. Then you could amble upstairs with him later and look down our noses at the expectant girls amassed as if to say ‘Look what I have got girls. Eat your heart out’.

I’ve always been fascinated with people and psychology and I think that, even then, I looked at people and mused. I have been in both situations at The Savoy – both with a bloke and without – and the mating dance is fascinating. It rarely changes; just the people were different. When I started to go dancing again, after Daddy died and I moved to Southend, I was petrified because I had not done that sort of thing for years. I really shouldn’t have worried because it has not changed. Oh the words are different, and the remarks are cruder and courser, but basically it’s the same.

The boys arrive and circle the floor sizing up the talent. The girls try to look nonchalant but are also eyeing up the boys. They have a sixth sense about who is going to ask them to dance and will indicate to the girl that they are dancing with that two guys are approaching, and whether they look good or not. The other will then say ‘no, I don’t fancy them’ or ‘yes, they are all right’ and the boys will then try to split them up. That’s easy if the girls fancy the boys, but virtually impossible to split them if they don’t.

Remarks like ‘Piss off’ or worse were not used in those days and yet I have heard them nowadays. Back then we gently declined and the boys continued to circle looking for other likely candidates. The girls’ worry was wasting a dance on someone that they did not fancy and missing out on a better prospect. The boys’ worry was to be left without a girl at the end of the evening.

The worse part of being a girl was that if your mate was prettier than you. She would be asked to dance while standing on the sideline, and this would leave you on your own if you were not asked to dance. You felt embarrassed, and even though you both agreed at the beginning of the evening that one would not dance and leave the other alone, when the crunch came ‘all’s fair in love and war‘.

Margaret being 4 years older than me was particularly unscrupulous in this respect. Many’s the time when I have refused to dance with someone and leave her on her own when, blow me, she’d be off with the first bloke that asked her, leave me standing.

It was on one of these memorable occasions when Daddy ambled up to me and it all started. Margaret and I were dancing when the boys came upstairs. I saw these two blokes eyeing us up and said to Margaret, “There are two boys coming over. Say no.”

Terry asked Margaret to dance and she said “Yes”. His lanky friend asked me and I said “No”. Margaret waltzed off with Terry, leaving us standing there awkwardly.

Still smiling, Daddy leaned down and whispered in my ear,“I have just walked the whole length of this dance floor to ask you to dance, don’t make me look like a fool now.” So I danced with him and your lives began.

Terry took Margaret home and she lived in Bellingham, which is a long way from Bermondsey, which is where I lived. As it turned out both Terry and Bob lived in Bermondsey, too.  Sods law is that I went to Catford to meet new folk and end up with a bloke that lived in the next street.

I will not go into any more details here I will leave the details until the chapter about myself.

*******

Catford Bellingham Southend

*That’s kinda weird, Clicky… /final drag…*

Enjoy your Sunday, Dear Reader, and… Have a Song ❤

Bitches Be Crazy

Being a keen universe hopper, it was interesting to read in the news today that Scooby Doo is to get a cinematic reboot… sum thing is usually afoot 😉

 

SCOOB reboot

*/sticks out tongue… Clicky, I’m parched. Go put the kettle on…*

Mother and Daughters
CLICKY: Right now?

*Yes, please. I need to get upstairs to tend to Thoughtful Man and I really wanna get this done.*

 

I'll make the tea

 

Extract from ‘A Family History for Ruth and Julia (Gawd ‘Elp Us!)’, a.k.a. ‘The Ma Papers’ by Judith Eileen Newton (formerly Shewan, née Packer)

The two weeks I spent at a holiday camp with cousin Margaret were great. It was the first time I got drunk. I learned rugby songs and snogged a different bloke every night.

Although I digress, I will tell you this story – while I was at the camp I met a bloke called Tony who lived in Queens Park in London. I continued to go out with him for some time after we got back. He used to stay the night on the sofa in the living room at Elim Estate. We would walk to London Bridge together, so that he could go to work and I could go to school at Euston. It must have looked strange with me in my uniform and this tall, handsome guy kissing me goodbye on the tube.

Then came the day when he frightened me by asking me to marry him. I was still only 15 years old.

His family had moved to Stevenage and he was offered a job on the Blue Streak Rocket on a government facility. This was in the early 60’s when rockets and technology was all the rage, together with the race to enter space. He had been allocated a house to go with the job. He really believed that I would move down there and become a sixteen year old housewife.

Christ! I did not like him that much, although he was very handsome. He looked the spitting image of Anthony Perkins, although I always thought that there was something strange about Anthony Perkins (apart from the fact that he was Norman Bates). I always think that if I had have married him, would I have ever really felt comfortable about taking a shower?

I dumped him of course and was then deluged with phone calls from all his family calling me a bitch and worse. They said he was distraught and they were worried about how he was taking it. Looking back I suppose that it was a bit scary, but in those days I suppose we hadn’t heard about stalking and harassing like you do nowadays.

Maybe I was a bitch? Maybe I am still a bitch and am in denial? No, who am I kidding? I am a bitch, a vital characteristic I have tried to instill in both of my bitches.

It's on bitch

*What? The kettle?*

Roobee decides to give it a whirl
CLICKY: Yes. No, your story’s been accepted for Leg Iron’s book

*Really?! It got in? /claps hands… Hang on, how do you know? You didn’t just use the kettle at Dume Towers, did you?*

smile

*Clicky! Still… I’m gonna be a published author. Oh, mum would be so proud* 😀

cheers

*Ugh! Kitten blood! /grimace… Clicky, have a song*