Episode 60.4 – The plot thickens just like when you add cornflour…
Story by Big M
Granny was doubly grateful this afternoon, one, that she hadn’t been semi-fatally damaged by falling on the cellar floor, thus being written out of the story, and, two, that she was stepping, or rather, driving out with her beloved, Foodge. ‘Is there anyone to compare with him?’ She thought. ‘Ruggedly handsome, powerfully built, reflexes like a panther….’ She had just returned from a brief visit to Glenda’s House of Pain for moustache and ear waxing, and a general tidy up around the place, in a depilatory manner, if you know what I mean.
Foodge stood in front of the bathroom mirror, having had a Very Close Shave (you know the sort of shave one has prior to a date), a quick pluck of assorted nose/ear/stray hairs, and a generous splash of Eau de Pheromone, from his own library of custom smells scents. Foodge was pretty sure the perfumier was joking about ‘extract of groin of Sumo’. Anyhoo, this wasn’t getting the picnic basket packed. In fact, was there a picnic basket? Foodge rushed down to the Gentleman’s Bar, where O’Hoo held the floor. ‘Septic was overflowing…yes, a shitload, oh, Mr Foodge.’
Foodge sidled up to have a word in O’Hoo’s pink, shell like. ‘Do we have a picnic basket around here?’
‘Do we have a picnic basket?’ O’Hoo exclaimed. ‘Do WE have a picnic basket? No,
but you, Mr Foodge have a luxury picnic basket for two, replete with hand selected items, selected by my own hands!’ O’Hoo whipped a rather large basket, covered in pink cellophane, from under the bar.
‘Mr O’Hoo, I could kiss you.’ Which was only partly true, because Mr Foodge was mainly heterosexual. Foodge took the basket straight out to the Zephyr, hiding the basket under a blanket on the back seat.
Foodge returned to the Gent’s (Bar, not Dunny) to find Mr O’Hoo regaling the entire Hell’s Angles with some Pleece detecting story. ‘Hey, Foodge you remember, Summer Hill Train Station!!’
Foodge was about to mention something about fare evasion being as bad as fax evasion when there was a hush in the room. Everyone turned to the main stairs where, a pair of black stilettoes emerged, followed by a pair of shapely ankles, clad in silk stockings, with perfectly straight seams down the back, terminating in little bows (Big M let out a small groan), then the calves, then, you guessed it, the knees, then a very short black dress. The figure was petite, yet had all of the curves in the right places, the face that followed was our own Granny. Not old, fiddle with the kegs, cook some eggs, brew up some more ale Granny, but a younger, softer Granny. The silence was interrupted by a voice. ‘Christ, I’d do her!’
‘Shut up you disrespectful mongrel.’ Yelled Our Foodge.
The room suddenly darkened, as if a partial solar eclipse was occurring. Everyone looked to the front doors. There stood Mr Merv in his best boxin’ shorts, and Pigs Arms T-shirt (are there any more of those Emmjay??). ‘Hallo me lovelies’ Grinned Merv.
Granny kicked off her stilettos and sprinted across the room, hugging Merv in a slightly less asphyxia embrace than Foodge received this morning. ‘My boy’s back!!’
Naturally the whole picnic, go for a drive, end up where it takes us thing didn’t happen, but, Pink Drinks and Pale Ale flowed, wedges were fried, sour cream dolloped, eggs scrambled, and so on. At the end of it al, when Merv and the family had gone to bed, the inebriates ejected and the pub locked up, Foodge sat on the back step with Granny. Her head conveniently leaned against his shoulder. ‘Another night, Love?’
‘Another night, Granny!’