It was a morning like any other morning, but his latest case weighed heavy on his mind. The dame had breezed into his office that day every inch a movie star and that sweet perfume had made him weak at the knees. A simple case or so he had thought, easy money, just a snoop job what could be simpler. Take a couple of snaps and cash my cheque. Since that day nothing had gone right, something was amiss, but he just couldn’t put his finger on what. It was cold and he flipped up the collars of his long rain coat against the chill. He cast his eyes to the heaven and shrugged his shoulders deeper into his clothes.
The morning was cold he thought, but the sky was clear, which was more than his head, perhaps today would be a good day, who knows. He dipped both hands into his coat pockets, in his left were the keys to his beat up station wagon in the other his packet of smokes. He pulled out his morning pick me ups and searched for the lighter with the other hand. His fingers wrapped around his Zippo, the cool metal under his fingers marked his success, the first success of the day, a portent of what was to come he hoped.
He tapped the Marlboros onto his hand and out popped one white stick, deftly slipping the stick into his mouth, he flipped open the top of the lighter, stuck the flint in one fluid motion cupping the lighter against the breeze. The flame appeared and he drew in his first lung full of forbidden pleasure. He knew it was wrong, but that first hit was so sweet. The smoke mingled with cold air as he exhaled, he took a second or two to savour the moment. Now he was ready, let the game begin.
Okay my morning was nothing like that and I don’t even smoke, I just let the moment get away from me. So Monday morning usually a time of great pessimism (thank god for spell check), but after 2 days at home over the weekend I’m feeling pretty good about things. I know the M25 awaits, but its half term and that usually means at least some of the driving Nazi’s will be off work or even better out of the country altogether. I know that whole Icelandic dust cloud thing was bad for the economy but it did mean an easier life for me and a few less smug bastards telling me about their fabulous short break in the sun. How I wept when I heard of their tales of 56 hour squalid coach journeys from the arse end of nowhere to just outside civilisation. Tears of sweet joy, there is a god and you know what, I think I like him this week.
As expected the Dartford crossing is pretty clear, but a Peugeot 20 something or other still feels the need to gain that all important extra spot in my lane. Queue the string of red brake rights. Cock. It’s okay though when we get to the tolls he chooses checkout number two, school boy error; I sail into trap 1 resisting the urge to give him the bird as I pass by, now all I have to do is contend with the pocket full of shrapnel the booth bloke just dumped in my hand. Job done and off we go.
The morning passed without interest, the usual mix of spreadsheets, conference calls, emails and disasters pending from the weekend. The toughest point came when I had to decide about food, unlike one of my colleagues who seems to live on fresh air and Granny Smith apples I need food and as usual i need it to contained all 3 major food group Meat, Bread and Chocolate. I know Gillian Mckeith is an expert, but she will die a sad and lonely woman, no one wants to live with someone who survives (that’s all it is) on whole grain anything, pine nuts and spends her time looking at other peoples poo. Live a little love; if I wanted to live forever I’d have married that Elf woman out of Lord of the Rings. And yes you are normal if you softly whispered her name to yourself so no one could hear. The little Tesco’s around the corner doesn’t provide a wide range of food, but being just outside what seems to be down town Compton, the local hood usually provides some entertainment while I peruse the shelves. Today is no exception as someone’s parked in the loading area, in broad daylight, in their big BMW, bling wheels, with the Clamping van parked on the other side of the car park. Morons and for their stupidity their prize is, wait for it (dramatic TV style pause)a fine of £120!! Yes, justice, if you would have spent more time at school reading or maybe learnt the language before coming to England, the clue was in those large yellow letters on the floor.
The main downside to the Tesco’s is they don’t do Morrison’s strawberry jam doughnuts, yes I know that’s obvious, but the brand name is important as you will see in times to come, anyway back to work and those lovely spreadsheets.
His lunch lay heavy in his gut, he wasn’t really hungry, his half eaten burger and practically untouched fries were testament to that. He sat in his usual chair away from the door. He finished his third coffee. He never sat at the counter, he liked to see who was coming and going, it was a habit that had kept him alive until now. He liked his habits, same suit, same coat, same smokes. It was the only reason he came to Joe's today, habit, same crummy dinner, but he liked things to stay the same especially Dolores’s big tits in that tight uniform. But today wasn’t the same. She had been there when he had arrived at the office. The woman in black, the ….. Sorry I’m off again, just stopped for a drink; my afternoon was some what less interesting. How annoying is it when someone asks you to do something for them and when it’s done you find out they asked someone else to do it as well. Jesus Christ if there is a deadline for this let me know you time wasting sausage jockey. This is why cousins shouldn’t marry.
The journey home was a good one and I'm almost home before I have to queue anywhere. I've never been that good in cars and for some reason I'm feeling a bit queasy. I get the same feeling when I think of the French and one of my other pet hates, mediums and clairvoyants. I mean are they for real, they get up on stage and it's always the same "I'm getting the feeling of a name or maybe a letter, yes I think it's a B, it's Bob or Bill" (that narrows it down to only half the over 50's in the crowd) " It could be a G?" literally no idea, fishing only slightly less than JR Hartley. Then someone shouts out "Is it Brian?" Before you know it the medium, usually at least an extra large, leaps on the poor unsuspecting victim with the classic line "yes it's coming in clearer now." Shock horror coming in clear as a bell, I am surprised. This classic is then proceeded by the usual claptrap such as he says he misses you or he never got the chance to say how much he loved you. Bollocks if he really loved you he would give you all the winners at Kempton on Friday or where he stashed all his lost money. They are a bunch of heartless chancers, if they admit to be being a medium they should be burned at the stake for being a witch, if they can speak to the dead then they can reserve themselves a good spot in the afterlife.
Home sweet home.
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