Nothing can upset me today. My window boxes are all potted out and in under twenty four hours I have the church Tombola and jumble to look forward to. Ok, I will be going there alone, but John will be there in spirit... he'll be secretely holding my hand and urging my numbers on as the caller draws the winners. I think John will always be with me. No matter what happens or where we end up in life, he will always be there in some form or other. I feel like this is a defining period of life... like my legend is being cast.
After putting my boxes out on their ledges I scurried down the hall and stood squinting out through spyhole in the door. I wanted to catch the postboy's expression as he noticed my seedling tomato plants and Hortensia... his surprise as he realised no.42 does have a life and has a slew of exciting creative hobbies to boot. I'm sure at the moment he must think I am some kind of reclusive transsexual, drinking myself to death in the dark and dreaming of a boobjob that'll never happen. Well, my window display will wipe the smirk clean off his face!
But I'm not against the postboy, far from it. I've been watching him each morning for over two weeks now, and he's not such the booby prize I first thought. He's young and spotty and awkward looking, but there's something about him that keeps my attention... even wants his. He's like the greatest reality TV show there can be. You could stand this kid in front of a camera and millions would tune in just to watch his hair grow. In that respect he's not too different from a window box; a kind of distant relative, I suppose. He also has this fantastic delinquent property about him. He looks like someone who would wipe his arse on your letters if you so much as pissed him off. An admirable quality, though not one for the CV. As he passed down and out of sight on the odd side of the street, I started counting...
...93...94...95 and there I heard him, his little trolley first. Three seconds later he was gone, wandered by peering quizzically at an airmail letter, trying to decipher the scrawled address on its front and taking absolutely no notice whatsoever of my prize window boxes. Bastard! But soon he'll have to notice. In six, seven days tops, he'll be opening my gate and approaching the door, my quarterly phone and electricity bills in hand.
Tristram's Birthday: Sunday 3rd October
Cheap jam sponge or something a little more exciting? How will Mr Spencer celebrate his 32nd year in hell?
Trolley Dash August 2010
Did Tristram accidently pick up a REAL bargain?
Brian the Postboy's gift to John: an ankle bracelet inscribed 'Super Dong'
Scrap metal or has John been 'tagged'. Is Tristram Spencer really the only fated man in town?
The Dangerous Dandy by Barbara Cartland
Will Tristram finally be brought to account for his love of Babs? And: is 25 years hard labour enough?
An Influx of Pigeons
Is there still some hope for the fated Mr Spencer?
Oh brilliant, this has an insular intensitity to it.
ReplyDeleteGreat, great stuff Tristram
I hope you are well
Nick XX
The sight of the postman's bare legs in the summer used to drive Fenella (my ex-favourite bitch donkey) into a frenzy that usually resulted in serious sexual assault. As a result I now have to collect my mail from the local sorting office which is a pity because I really used to enjoy videotaping the aforementioned donkey-on-postman action and sending it into You've Been Framed.
ReplyDelete@ Nick: Oh thank you! I'm wellish, though had ahuge shock at yeterdays Tombola. A wheelchair was found 200ft up wound around the church cross. Real scar stuff. X
ReplyDelete@ Richard: jeremy Beadle must love you! Is he still alive? If ot there may be a suicide on the cards for that lout! Though I do like his midget hand... dare I say: it's even sexy?