Lets get the hard facts out of the way, and I choose my words with care. I was sitting next to the head of the “Stomachs Must Be Filled But I Don’t Feel Like Cooking” committee ,and reflecting on the problem that offered up of a Sunday evening, when the solution came to me. “Do not worry, oh dearest one, I will walk beyond the world of streetlights and along the river bank and buy a ready meal from our local store”
No praise required here. I know when to step up to the plate as well as the next man, and I’m always armed with my favourite knife and fork. Off I went up the darkened path, whistling a selection of notes from my favourite tunes when “Whack, ” my foot caught on some raised object in the path and before I knew it I was almost flying through the air, and landed fully spread-eagled on the tarmac, who announced its pleasure at this rare moment of intimacy by leaving a number of cuts and bruises about my person, no doubt to act as a memorial of our late night tryst.
I managed to get to my feet, carry onto to the shop and return home, slightly shaken, but armed with those snacks which promise TV heaven. All well and good.
This morning I am off for my early morning walk and wondering who I can bore with my account of this minor incident when I notice, as if armed with a sixth sense, that all the people I know, even by sight, have scuttled into doorways or little-ventured alleys and left my walk conversation free. Blast.
Finally I arrive at the newspaper shop and recount my adventure., ( see paragraph two for those too bored to recall the entire incident ) to the guy who I know through loose- change dialogue only, who stands behind the counter at that shop. He goes by the name, in my imagination, of “Windbag Nige.”
After I conclude the abridged version of my adventure he replies, “Do you know Marlow Street in Hampton” . “No” I say. “Do you know Hampton Station” “Not really” I offer “Do you know Hampton Court Roundabout,”
” Yes” I admit
, “You take the second exit at Hampton Court roundabout, then after about two hundred yards you turn right onto Southampton Row. After one hundred and fifty yards you take the left hand fork and then second on your right is Buckingham Road. At the bottom of that road is a T-Juntion, and Marlow Street is on the right hand side”
“Ah yes” I say, but now I am grinning weakly in the way I did when I realised I had walked into a talk on “Astrophysical Changes in the context of Matter” when I thought I was going to watch the local darts contest, and finding myself to be in an audience of one, namely myself. I didn’t have the heart to leave,
Windbag Nige droned on about the big handsome trees which are on the wide pavements of his street. a possible connection to my original story, before inviting me, figuratively speaking, to enter his house and admire the “very best in furnishings” with which the place is crowded apparently, and the presence of “Wide-screen televisions” in every corner of the house and its passages so that “Not a moment of your favourite soup opera will be lost if you have to go quickly for the biologicals. We are both men, I think we can mention them,” he explains, before displaying a selection of polished teeth.
Finally I manage to get out of the shop and go and drink my coffee in total, utter and blissful silence. Still, you can’t keep a good man down so, now I have recovered, I find it impossible to stop lifting my keyboard onto my lap and telling you all my tale. Please ensure that any comments made do not include details of your house furnishings.