Foodge had been along every aisle in Buntings. Eventually he found his way to the help desk. Foodge couldn’t help thinking how Buntings rhymed with something, never mind. The assistant suggested he went to the toilet as he was so fidgety as he hadn’t had any alcohol or cigarettes. “Yes I can see them young lady but I have Korsakoff psychosis and am really difficult to manage” replied Foodge.
He had quite a long list, so handed it to the assistant who smiled and handed it to her off sider. “I think you’ll struggle a bit here mate. Skyhook? Do you really need two? We had one in stock but an acrobat bought it this morning.
Five Fallopian tubes. We don’t stock them ‘ere, but ‘arrison’s Prosthetics may have some sort of substitute but I reckon they sell ‘em in pairs.
Left ‘anded ‘ammers have gone outta style, what with carpenters gradually adapting to the more traditional right-handed tool.
Blinker fluid…don’t stock it anymore, try Repco, it will be one aisle over from the Elbow Grease.
As for the Heavy Duty Clutch Belt, that’s not normally a DIY job unless you have your own Heavy Duty Clutch Belt Buckle, but they’re bloody dangerous.
Repco should stock sparks for spark plugs. We used to stock boxes of Inertia, but never seemed to shift ‘em.
Make Up Air sounds like a specialist air conditioning item, or perhaps a beauty aid.” The assistant grinned.
“We can’t sell a new Hydraulic Automatic Nanode valve, but we can recondition an old one, if you can bring it in, undamaged.”
“I suppose I need a special Hydraulic Automatic Nanode Valve Puller or Extractor?” Foodge was exasperated.
“Of course, they’ll have a couple under the counter in Tool Hire. Just ask them for a HANd Job.”
Foodge considered a HANd job but he thought she said a MANdjob and now that she was a born again O’Donnellist he thought that may be a bit rude even though it gave him a chubby. The more things change the more they stay the same.
“I think you better leave Sir. There is something bulging in your pants”
“That’s just my pant bulger, I brought it from here” cries Foodge
“511 to security, we have a problem…”
Poor old Foodge, didn’t even get a sausage from the sausage sizzle…
Mrs O’Way, the most beautiful girl in the universe
“I’ve had enough of this shit” roars Mrs O’Way, whose first name is Belinda by the way. Belinda is the the little sister of Glenda from Glenda’s Pain and Torture Clinic, just down the road and around the corner from the Pigs Arms. “The Fictional Characters Union has just amalgamated with the Characters Fictional Union to become the FUCU(Fictional Union of Characters United) and we’ve become the laughing stock as now everyone is referring to us as fuck you.”
“Merv, pour me a double South Sea Island Blue Label and are you fictional or real?” she demands.
“I think I’m real, no hang on a minute, that’s right I’m fictional but a union member of FUCU” replies Merv.
“So fuck you” says Mrs O’Way.
The rest is real or maybe…
“ Hello, look author here. I’m not into this swearing stuff so please close your eyes when you are reading some rude words. Anyway kiddies may be watching.” says Mark from the commentary box.
“So hands up, who here is real?” demands Mrs O’Way. A limp response is recorded. “What about fictional?” same sort of reply.
“Are there any cats here we can shoot?” asks Algernon.
“Hope so” replies Big M. “Anyone seen Mother O’Way?”
“STFU Big, do you want Gordon to zap our brains out?” cries Algernon.
“What brains would that be?” Big M replies. Good point thinks Algernon.
“Look I used to be real till I came across the Pigs Arms” says Sister Yvonne.
#Metoo say the girls, oh boy, I can see a movement happening.
“Now, now, lets just all keep this in Perspex” says janowrite out of left field.
“Drinks on the house” says Merv trying to avoid a disaster, “did you mean perspective jano?”
“Probably but a South Seas Blue Label will do me” janowrite struggles at this point to attempt to see what’s happening in this story but you are in it now, bad stinking luck, just ask Sister Yvonne.
“Where’s my Sandy” cries Mrs O’Way, oops I mean Belinda.
“Well sorry love but he’s down at the dress shop”
“You’re not allowed to say that Merv otherwise Gordon will zap our brains out, hey there’s a cat” says Algernon in a timely fashion as only he can do.
Big M and Algernon open fire with their shotguns and unfortunately after open heart surgery the cat dies. Snigger, snigger. Oh well, that’s how it goes, snigger, snigger.
Mrs O’Way, oops, sorry, Belinda, belts the boys around the head with an umbrella.
“Where did that come from Belinda?”
“Out of the props section, they have lots of things in there, even dildos”
“Yeah I can see a #catkiller movement starting as well, lucky I’m smart” says someone unnamed form the FUCU. Is that you Hung?
“Not me, I’d never say something rude or smart, I’m a nurse you know and us nurses never are rude or swear or are smart aren’t we.”
Foodge’s nightmares continued unabated. Every night, between three and four Granny would be woken by his thrashing and groaning. It was always the same dream; Foodge’s disembodied head in a box. Every time Granny gleaned little bits of additional information before Foodge slipped back to a slumber punctuated by snores, coughs, obstructive episodes and loud farts. Sometimes Foodge replied in Spanish. Occasionally he’d stand up and try to micturate behind the tall boy. One time he was as randy as all hell, but every time he had no memory the next morning. Granny spent the hours between Foodge’s dream and dawn pondering the meaning of these dreams.
……………………………………………….
Foodge has a dream…
Foodge has experienced a reasonable day, that is, until Father O’Way arrived in a pretty summer dress with his hair tumbling over his shoulders and his old navy tattoos on display for all to see. “Call me Mother O’Way!” He gushed.
“Mother O’Way!” Merv erupted. “Mother Fucking O’Way…how about Get Outta the Fucking Way?”
“When did this change occur?” Ventured Foodge.
“Yesterday’s episode.” O’Way was coquettishly twirling his longish grey hair between her fingers.
“Christ, talk about one dimensional characters, what about Mrs O’Way?” Merv quickly poured a second glass of Crème de Menthe.
“It’s over, she’s an extreme heterosexual, a homophobe of the highest degree!”
“So she’s available?” Merv rubbed his hands together.
“I don’t care what happens to her.” O’Way sounded quite melodramatic.
“What is the Church’s position on all of this?” Foodge had managed to pry his eyes away from the train wreck known as Mother O’Way, and pour himself a South Seas Island rum.
“The Bishop is way cool with this.” O’Way had located a compact in his purse and was busily caking powder on her nose. “He thinks this turn of events to be rather modern.
“What about Gordon O’Donnell?”
“What about Gordon O’Donnell?” Everyone turned to behold Gordon’s wonderful visage (actually he looked like an old derro).
“Oh, well, your majesty, ah, I mean your honour, um, what are your thoughts on Father O’Way becoming Mother O’Way?’ Foodge stammered.
“I’m the sort of chap who wouldn’t care one way or another, but, when he’s got such a beautiful looking sheila, and, bear in mind, that it took me months to get this pair together, and, the fact that he’s only doing this for dramatic effect…I don’t approve!”
O’Way was crestfallen. “What do I do now?”
Gordon put a comforting arm around the Father’s broad shoulders. “The missus hasn’t seen you like this?”
O’Way shook his head.
“Let’s keep it our little secret. Perhaps you can frock up when she’s on a weekend away?” Gordon looked around the bar. “It is our little secret! Know what I mean.”
Merv and Foodge nodded enthusiastically, not wanting a bolt of lightning through their skulls.
“I’ll have a word with the Bishop, if he’ll listen to me.” Gordon had a twinkle in his eye.
The Bish arrived with attitude. The good Bish (there are some very bad Bishes) had been a supplicant for a semester at a mind re-training boot camp conducted in the Southern Highlands by the Society for the Restoration of All Bishops of Any Sin. FOW*, still. after all these years resident in the Manse over the road from the Pig’s Arms** carpark had some advantages as a host of his, or her, re-emergence. More important to the Bish than anything was no longer being of a fixed mindset about his, or her, personal gender or about anything at all. If anything, FOW was the perfect host. He was laid back.
The Bish greeted his friend, Sandy O’Way with gushing warmth.
“Mother O’Way, away wit’ y’ lookin’ so bonny.”
Sandy, or as we like to address him on formal occasions, FOW, hesitated.
“I’ll need to put down the suitcases, Bish.’
The suitcases dispensed with at the bottom of the staircase, FOW waited for the onrush of shock into his consciousness to subside. Being seized and hugged in an instant by the Bish was unexpected, nay unaccustomed. He picked up the suitcases again, his two hands firmly gripped on them as if on reality. The Bish filled him in as they walked up the staircase to the upper storey side by side
The Bish had seen where inconsistencies in the mortal and moral fabric tethered him, or her to the old ways in entire indifference to caring. In bondage, the Bish explicated. He waved his hands free of imagined shackles.
“We’re all good then.”
FOW wanted it to be inferred he would be Mother O’Way, MOW if necessary were it required of him. What’s in a name.
“Never been better,” the Bish punched with his fists into the very air.
“I’ll check your prescriptions. Seen Gordy*** lately?”
“Don’t forget Gord, Sandy.” Tears of beatitude and plenitude, rectitude I suspect, gratitude rolled down the face of the Bish. They splashed onto the gold heraldic design on the carpet on the staircase.
*Father O’Way
**Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle
***Gordy O’Donnell, nuclear and unplugged physicist of all things indeterminable in the Cyberverse.
Hung. “I thought you were writing another episode?”
Big. “Err, yep, suppose so.”
Hung. “ You know, you mentioned Foodge’s head in a box.”
Big. “Yeah, I did mention that.”
Hung. “Well, get going!”
Foodge was at his usual place behind the coffee machine busily bringing her up to a full head of steam in readiness for the anticipated influx of customers.
Hung. “Hang on. You’ve started nearly every episode in the last few months with Foodge at the coffee machine.”
Big. “Well, so what, it makes the writing easier.”
Hung. “You know that I’ve been in strife with the Fictional Union of Characters!”
Big. “Wasn’t that the Union of Fictional Characters?”
Hung. “Yes, but they renamed themselves to get a better acronym.”
Big. “Well, FUC certainly has a ring to it.”
Hung. “There are regulations around the use of two dimensional characters in stories. You’re running a risk of only using a two dimensional character in a one-dimensional plot thereby undermining said character’s dimensions. In effect they can simply disappear.”
Big. “I’ll try again.”
Spot the dummy…
Granny was woken in the middle of the night by Foodge’s groans and flailing limbs.
Hung. “That’s better already.”
“Come on, darling, you’re having a nightmare.” Granny soothed.
Foodge managed to pull the pillow from his face. “I dreamed that my head was stuck inside a box.”
“What, like a disembodied head kept alive by a mad scientist, as in the movie, The Brain That Wouldn’t Die, or like someone had smashed your head into a box?”
“Dunno, I could still feel my limbs.”
“That could be phantom sensations.” Granny pondered.
“Does it matter now?” Foodge turned over to try to get back to sleep.
“It sort of does. Could you hear anything?”
“Yes, there was a humming sound behind my head, you know, pumps and so forth.” Foodge pulled up the duvet, even though it wasn’t particularly cool.
“Any voices?”
“Yes, umm, those two fellows that pop in occasionally, um, Hung and Big M.”
“What did they say?’ Granny was becoming anxious.
“Something about two dimensional characters and one dimensional plot lines.” Foodge suddenly started snoring loudly.
Granny didn’t get back to sleep, but sat up wondering what all this meant.
Granny wondering how she got into this mess…
Foodge was back at his usual station behind the bar. Merv slipped a middy along the bar. “Get that into you, it’ll put lead in yer pencil.”
“Love a stout, especially first thing in the morning.” Foodge skulled the dark liquid.
“It’s Granny’s new Porter.”
“What’s a Porter?”
“It’s essentially a type of stout.”
“Right.” Foodge pushed the empty glass along the bar, which Merv quickly refilled (the glass, not the bar).
Foodge raised the glass to his lips but his eyes were transfixed by the most beautiful face he’d seen in his life. She really was a long cool woman in a black dress (as the song goes). She was tall, slender, slightly athletic, with black hair, emerald eyes and pale, almost alabaster skin. “Morning!” He blustered, with the glass still in front of his face.
Merv was just as enchanted, but somehow, maintained some composure. “Good morning, madam, can I be of assistance?”
“What a darling man.” She enthused. “I’m hoping that you can help me.”
“Yes, yes.” Foodge and Merv leaned forward.
“I’ve lost my husband.”
A flicker of hope flared in Merv’s heart. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“No, he’s not dead, he really is lost. I haven’t seen my Alexander for months. He said he was coming to the Pig’s Arms to help out for a week or so and hasn’t been back.”
Merv was slightly crestfallen. “Alexander you reckon? Never ‘eard of him.”
“You may know of him as Sandy?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Both Foodge and Merv shook their heads.
“He sometimes dresses as a priest and claims to be from the Generic Brand Church.”
“Oh, of course, Father O’Way, or FOW as we sometimes call him.” Foodge motioned to the coffee machine.
“Thank goodness, no, I won’t have a coffee, I wouldn’t mind something stronger…perhaps from the top shelf.”
Merv picked up on the hint and decanted from the South Sea Islands Blue Label.
Merv in shock…
“You know that he’s not really a priest, he just dresses that way to avoid the risk of becoming a one dimensional character. The problem is that we all run that risk in the Fictional Character Industry.”
Foodge nodded carefully, as it took his brain a little while to catch up. “You don’t think we’re all characters in some sort of fiction?”
“That’s like Descartes’ Brain in a vat idea, where some evil demon has placed a brain in a vat of nutrients and connected the nerves to various inputs to make the person think they are still alive.” Merv postulated while pouring Mrs O’Way a second drink.
“Yes, I was dreaming about this only last night, that I was a brain in a box.” Foodge motioned for a third Porter. Merv quickly obliged.
“We can’t be just fictional characters, because we’re here all of the time, talking, moving, eating and drinking. I can’t see how someone could make all of that up?” Merv wrinkled an already much troubled brow.
“Do you ever have people who seem to wander in for what seems to be minutes? They often have outlandish descriptions of themselves or their experiences.” Mrs O’Way sounded like she was on to something.
“Yes, we do.” Foodge looked slightly comical with a beery moustache. “Big M and Hung would be the primary candidates. Hung seems to appear and disappear at will while Big M always claims to have travelled by steam train.”
“That’s exactly the sort of character I’m talking about. Almost like ghosts trying to manipulate the living.” Mrs O’Way was interrupted by a tall man, who planted a kiss on her cheek.
“I hope you aren’t telling tales out of school, darling!” Grinned O’Way.
I often reflect on Lehan Winifred Ramsay and what she has meant to me.
Coming out of a University building after a Clubs and Associations training meeting yesterday evening my eye was taken by the sky. I had emerged out of the building into a dark side path I found was not lit as I expected.
Perhaps it really was because I had taken a road less travelled I happened on a friend at an intersection of the path I further took to walk home. My friend Dom is a mature age student whose specialist attention is in IT. I feel we found such important common ground in our shared talk.
I walked further with one of the security staff. He makes a difference in the work he does on campus. He walks a regular beat and recognizes the students who need the warm or plain kind word of a person who listens as another speaks. He walks a path less travelled.
Reading back over shared communication with Lehan, I see later she and I meet at intersections of a sort and I would in some ways too sadly forget if they were not captured on pages of The Pig’s Arms where we met. I wander around online and view her life work, her photography, read what we at the pub here, this wild and romantic blog post, had with Lehan as a contributor, our bold and innovative off-the-wall friend.
The work she sent me is not listed anywhere that I have found. ‘The Lotus Pond’ is one of her most beautiful and possibly significant paintings. Fireflies flash their illumination of magic and dart across the pond surface.
The Bish is excited. The Bish is having an episode. The good Father O’Way is excited. The staff at Glenda’s Waxing are excited. The Bish has not attended one of FOW’s At Homes for a good while so we are all excited his Uber turned up at the Manse front gate. One of FOW’s specialties is a rousing ‘At Home’.
FOW’s not above inviting a good dance troupe to perform either on the Manse lawn. He has asked the PA’s Morris Dancers. They have showed good form over the years.
Myself I have never heard of any of them. When I suggest I think they have danced off and away to Morris Dancers’ Dance Heaven in the sky (perhaps that is a bit long winded ha! ha! ha! hiccup!), the Bish scoffs.
“Bollocks, Christina!”
I am of a mind to write him out of this one. I keep a cap on it. I see the juxtaposition as well of the sweary word and my name, my real name, sounds with unexpected resonance.
“This is an opportunity sent from…”
“Shut up,” the Bish demands, interrupts says it mildly, “Shut up.”
He’s not happy I think the Morris Dancers are no more.
Someone dropped their hanky
“No more, the derry-o,” I sing to keep things on the up and up, cheerful.
“We never know who anybody really is,” the Bish opines.
FOW* is mopping the porch. No-one pays him attention. Nobody there.
“I’ll say it anyway.”
Nobody knows what it was. A raucous noise of a band in the Pig’s Arms Sylvia Plath Memorial ballroom sets up. It disappears like a wisp of a fanfare of a concerto.
On the other side of the car park, Merv walking through the Sports Bar is himself in explication with himself.
“She’s not here.”
Where ‘she’ isn’t or wasn’t depends on where in time you want to go with this, let me interrupt and explicate. I’ll do that sometimes. It’s knowing everything that causes everything. Merv was in the cellar of this infamous address, destination of drinkers and jokers all, place of the people, the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle. He’s risen up the cellar stairs to walk through the Sports Bar. FOW is mopping the floor of the entrance hall of the Manse, but not out of mind. Out of frame.
“I know perfectly well she’s not here.”
Merv is confident. Granny had left the building. Merv had watched Granny’s curvaceous arse gyrate and manipulate its way around and between the Sports Bar tables and chairs and it exit.
Emmjay is calling down into the stair well. It’s his pub. He does as he chooses. Merv careens out of reverie.
“Yes? What do you want, Emm?” Merv calls back from the Sports Bar.
“Merv, did you tell the Flamin’ Crows they could practice in the Ballroom this morning?”
“Don’t know anything about that.”
Of course he doesn’t. He didn’t know I was going to write them in. Viewpoint is everything. The soundscape is deafening. The crescendo is only bettered by the rate of debris falling from the rafters. Chook waste. Dried chook excreta. Chook feathers.
Merv and Emmjay step out into the car park for a breath of morning air unadulterated with reminder the rafters were never mucked out after the last chook was despatched to the WDAPW** Sports Bar counter menu. The sun is risen in a blaze of glory. FOW is at the gate of the Manse directly opposite. A Cyberverse taxi driver is at the Manse gate emptying luggage out of the boot of a Cyberverse taxi. The Bish is back in town.
This is where I grew up. The photo was taken in 1904. So if you take 1904 from 2021 you get twenty five. Makes me 26 this year. That’s right isn’t it Algy?
As you can see, transport hasn’t changed and the big building on the corner is the Ryan’s Hotel which meant getting to the pub was much harder than getting home. My brother-in-law and I can attest to this on many occasions.
The Illawarra Escarpment hasn’t changed a dickie bird whereas me and my brother-in-law have.
The town is called Thirroul which means “easy to pub, hard to get home” in the local lingo and in the late 1880’s everyone spoke French so the locals knew that then.
The roads are still shit and now traffic lights are needed to control the flow of horse drawn buggies. Gee how things have changed.
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 