Rodger got very excited on Boxing Day. He had decided to stuff the turkey curry and feed it to the birds instead. He was outside my abode merrily tossing the parson’s nose across the lawn when a seagull dive bombed and nearly missed the elderly bread throwing neighbour.
‘To compete with the parson’s nose’ she mumbled into her day old crust, ‘is a mission impossible.’
And it was if a blow torch lit up in my lover’s bald spot.
‘I have a novel in me’ he shouted up at my boudoir window.
‘Well don’t sit down,’ came a voice from the washing green.
Ignoring the voice from the washing green, my Rodger carried on shouting. ‘Missionary Impossible a Sci Fi for the dyslexics.
Now the only impossible missionary I know takes an afternoon on pints followed by an evening on whisky ...thank god my Rodger doesn’t not drink.
Rodger raced up the stairs and as he lunged for the chandler he shouted, ‘a heroine called Sheila, a whip and a midget called Woody, what you think my little sugar lump?’ (He only ever mentions my sugar lumps in a totally state of creativity).
And as I watched my little love pot swing his torso with more gusto than a chimp on speed I began to ponder.
How many times do you look at you mobile after first date, worst still after the first lumber (Shag for those not Scottish), worst still when they both happened at the same night? Not the sort of question you would expect from a pensioner, especially one who is being entertained by myself at the Rest & be Thankful Nursing Home.
Still she seemed more that enthusiastic when my Rodger pulled out his Zills during the performance. In fact she grabbed them and with remarkable timing started belting out Auld Lang Syne on them. Rabbie Burns would have been fair impressed.
Well she and the other followers at the R & B T will no longer be privileged to hear Rodger’s Zills. He has taken to the shed; yes by the washing green and can be heard muttering to himself - ‘no Sheila not the whip’ , ‘Woody! Woody! the Starship’s out of diesel’.
And as for my chandelier, it suspends silently on my bedroom ceiling barely managing more than a tilt when the bin men's lorry drives by.