Category Archives: Big M

Foodge 25 – Foodge Goes Under Cover

01 Wednesday Jun 2011

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By Big M

Merv stood behind the Main Bar absent-mindedly drying glasses with a tea towel, and that’s when it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen Foodge for, not one, but two days. Foodge annoyed Merv much of the time, but, now in his absence Merv realised that he missed the goofy ‘private detective’. Merv hadn’t had much time, until now, to think about Foodge. Two coach loads of tourists had been in yesterday seeking the authentic ‘Inner West Pub Experience’, whatever that was supposed to be, but nevertheless a big money spinner, plus Bowling Ladies this morning, which stretched to ‘luncheon’, with ‘drinky poos’.  Janet had been at him to mind the twins during the day so that she could get some rest, as she’d only had nine hours sleep the night before. Poor Merv couldn’t get away from the bar, so Granny seized the opportunity to take the babies for a stroll to the park.

Merv tried to pour himself a lemon-lime ‘n’ bitters, but, all he got from the bar gun was cold, flat water, so, stuck his head under the bar to hook up a new cylinder of carbon dioxide. This went surprisingly smoothly for Merv, with only two scraped knuckles and a couple of curses. He emerged from under the bar to be greeted by the strangest sight; Foodge clad in Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, short brown socks and brown brogues. The outfit was completed with a pair of wrap around sunglasses. “Ah, Foodge!” Blurted Merv, struggling to suppress a belly laugh.

“Not Foodge.’ Winked Foodge. “Undercover…big case…surf gang.” As he tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “Buddy ‘n’ Coke thanks, bartender.”

“Sure you don’t want a pint?”

“No, young people drink buddy.”

“I think you’ll find that’s ‘Bundy’ Foodge…sorry…sir.” Merv topped up the glass from the bar gun, only it wasn’t real Coke, or Pepsi, it was based on a syrup based on trial and error, more error, in fact, but, nevertheless generated a carbonated fluid that looked like coke, but had a flavour that was neither pleasant or sweet.

Foodge sat at the bar, and thirstily tugged at the straw. “So, bartender, any surfers in here today?”

“Well, given that we’re an hour and a half from the nearest beach by Sydney’s excellent public transport, well…no.” Merv applied a couple of bandaids to his skinned knuckles.

“Righto, thanks for the heads up. I’ll broaden my enquiries to some locale closer to the beach.

“Foodge, mate, I’ve got to tell you, you look like an English school teacher on ‘olidee’ in Ibiza. Has it occurred to you that infiltrating a surf gang may not be the easiest thing for a man of your age, pallor and sartorial taste?” Merv had started to pour another Bundy ‘n’ Coke, unasked.

“Could have a point” Reflected Foodge, remembering back to his last day at the beach when his swimming trunks had been torn off as he was dumped by a wave, and he had to wait for a lifesaver to swim out with a towel so he could maintain some semblance of dignity, much to the chagrin of the lifesavers on patrol.  That was the last time he would ever borrow a pair of yellow crocheted speedos from Emmjay.

“You’re right, I need to employ someone else, Fern, maybe?

“No, mate, fingernails.” Merv held up his bid, disfigured hand, wiggling his fingers.

“Emmjay?” Foodge raised his eyebrows in askance.

“He’s fit, he bodysurfs, but he’s no ‘surfer’.”

“I know, O’Hoo!” Foodge’s face lit up.

“You can’t employ a copper to do PI work.” Merv retorted as the area behind the bar darkened, as if subject to some local eclipse of the sun. Young Wes stepped through the doorway, and started to make himself a long black on the coffee machine. “Young Wes.” Merv nodded. “Djagetsum sleep?”

“Yeah, Uncle Merv. Fancy dress, Foodge.” Wes looked over the coffee machine at the comic figure before him.

“No, undercover.” Foodge shook his head and removed the sunglasses. “Make it a pint of best, this time, Merv. What are you doing sleeping during the day?”

“Assistant in Nursing at the Rissole (RSL) Nursing Home, doing two nights a week…love it!” Wes added a little cold water to his steaming mug. “Had a long term patient die last night, a bit upsetting, but he was ready to go.” Wes took a sip.

“Oh…err…what do you, err…do…” Foodge was uncomfortable talking about death, which seemed odd for a PI.

“Oh, just make them comfortable, hold their hand, if there are no relos around. Captain Rawlings’ daughter stayed until the end.” Wes was very respectful towards his patients, always calling them ‘mister’, or ‘sir’, unless they wanted to be named by rank.

Foodge thought it paradoxical that Wes, who was built like a brick outhouse, and had bested bikies, former boxers, and various unsavoury characters in his capacity as Pigs Arms bouncer, could be so gentle. “Well, I’m looking for someone to do some casual work, for me, as a PI, you interested?”

“Mid-semester break is coming up.” Wes stared into his mug. “ I was planning to take the bike for a run to visit mum.”

“I can make it worth your while, two ‘C’ notes a day, plus expenses.” Foodge tended to lapse into 1940’s Private Dick-speak, every now and then.

“What do I have to do?” Wes was warming to the idea of being a private dick for a week.

“Infiltrate the surf gang known as the Cronulla Sharks and warn them off this.” Foodge fished an iPhone out of his pocket, and expertly navigated to a photo of a tall, pretty blond teenager, who would likely fill out to become a tall, blond, beautiful model.

Both Merv and Wes were aghast that Foodge, not only owned a mobile, but that he could actually use the damned thing! “Who’s the chick?”  Wes was very interested.

“Imogen Stapleton, heiress to the Stapleton Mining fortune, who, incidentally, is underage.” Foodge glared at Wes. “Has been hanging around these surfers. I’ve been employed by the family’s solicitor to warn them off. By the way, Wes, can you surf?”

“Shortboard, Mal, boogyboard, bodysurf, anything really.” Wes shrugged his shoulders. “When do I start?”

Foodge held up his glass. ”How about right now?”

Foodge 24 – Foodge’s Hangover

11 Wednesday May 2011

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Not just any old gloom, but tenebrous gloom

Foodge woke surrounded by tenebrous gloom. His initial impression was that he had been buried alive! Two facts argued against that; One, he was face down, and Two he could smell leather, sweat and a faint scent of lavender. The sound of a high-speed electric motor cut through the silence. He was now quite sure that he wasn’t underground, as he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to hear much underground. He tried to move, but the crick in his neck and pins and needles in his arms prevented any activity. He tried to call out, but his dry throat, and the fact that his face was pushed into the surface on which he lay, prevented more than a plaintive. “elp….ay…agh!” The stomp of heavy footsteps had Foodge’s highly trained musculature ready for action. He was suddenly blinded by sunlight as a heavy blanket was jerked back from his face. Foodge clenched his eyes shut, ready for whatever torture his abductor had prepared.

“What the f$*&.” Merv exclaimed, sweat running down his face (he had just returned from his morning gym session). “I thought that Fern and Emmjay took you home!” Merv was assisted by young Wes to slowly get the hapless detective up from the chesterfield, onto his feet and gently ambulate him out of the Ladies Lounge, and into the Main Bar.

“Someone must’ve slipped me a Mickey Finn.” Foodge surmised, based on his amnesia and throbbing headache.

“Mickey Finn!” Merv laughed.” How about eight bottles of our best Porphyry Pearl between you, Fern, Emmjay an’ Effemm?” A bowl of Granny’s wedges appeared on the bar next to a pint of Trotter’s Best. “Get these into yer guts, son, that’ll fix you up!”

Foodge was onto his third pint before he started to feel human. Merv went about his publican duties, which seemed to involve a lot of restocking, straightening of bar stools and disposing of broken glasses. It all started to come back to him. He had, in promise to his solicitor decided to sack Fern, but, lacking the guts to do so by himself, brought Emmjay and his First Mate to provide support over a couple of drinks.

The sacking had been a disaster. As sackings go, the only worst sacking in history was the sacking of Gough Whitlam. Fern had reacted badly to the news, and fled to the Ladies, knocking over two pints of Trotter’s Best and a bowl of wedges in the process. Foodge sat there dumbly hoping that Effemm would leap into the fray, or, rather the Ladies, and provide succour to the young woman. She didn’t move. Nor did Emmjay, except for an almost imperceptible sideways movement of his eyes, which Foodge took to mean that it was his responsibility to comfort Fern.

Foodge had never been to the Ladies, and was surprised to learn that it was a fairly spacious, clean and well appointed and maintained area. It wasn’t hard to work out which cubicle held young Fern, the sobs could be heard out in the bar.  Meanwhile, Emmjay and Effemm were laying bets as to how many minutes it would take Fern to wheedle her way back into Foodge’s employ.  Effemm won: seven minutes had elapsed before the pair returned and Foodge announced that, whilst it was true that Fern had been dismissed as secretary, she had been re-employed as Office Manager. He also announced that there was a new phase in Foodge’s operations, which would involve computers, mobile phones, digital cameras, and so on. Emmjay, who was a fairly canny fellow and couldn’t let the opportunity go by, offered his services as I.T. Consultant and Network Engineer (whatever those jobs entailed).

This, of course, meant that the ‘afternoon drinks/sacking’ had become a party to mark two new positions in Foodge’s company. Foodge called for ‘bubbly’ and Merv obliged with Porphyry Pearl. Foodge demanded food, and Granny cooked wedges, with sour cream and sweet chilli sauce. Foodge wanted music, and, unfortunately the jukebox was stuck on ‘A Summer Holiday’, which repeated over and over. I guess you can’t have ‘em all.

“Well”. Foodge thought out loud. “Here’s to the Pigs Arms and all those who imbibe in her. May her Best Bitter stay bitter, and her Pink Drinks stay sickly sweet!”

“What was that, Foodge.” Merv’s bulbous head popped up from behind the bar. “Wannanuther drink?”

“Nothing, Merv. Yes, why not?” Foodge grinned as he tipped his Fedora back from his forehead.

Foodge 23 : Acacia’s Plan Foments

21 Thursday Apr 2011

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Acacia jonesii

Story by Big M

Acacia’s plan for Foodge depended on Fern being able to carry out her part, flawlessly. Acacia had already established, from medical records and old newspapers that Foodge was the only son of Hamish MacFoodge, socialite, barrister, and philanthropist, and his wife Felicity, socialiser, Solicitor-at-Large, and professional cake contest judge. They had both been tragically killed in a ballroom accident, leaving poor young Felix MacFoodge orphaned. The rest was a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, or, was it an enigma wrapped in a mystery (or a wedge wrapped in a newspaper…ed) ? Either way, Acacia had gone as far as she could go with public records. This was where Fern had a huge part to play. Acacia had just finished explaining all of the above, over a glass, or two, of ‘Chardy’.

“So, Foodge’s dad was a famous coffee maker, right?” Fern was trying to resist the temptation to fiddle with her new acrylic nail.

“No, where did you get that idea?”

“Oh, silly, you said that he was a famous barista” Fern replied triumphantly, once having dated one. “I should know!”

“No, you’re the silly one, I said ‘barrister’, not ‘barista’, don’t you know the difference?” Acacia was starting to get short with Fern, which was a pretty common occurrence, as Fern wasn’t playing with a full deck.

“Yes, of course I do, one makes coffee, the other hangs around in bars!” Fern waved at the waitress to top up their glasses.

“That’s right, this one was the bar hanging around type. Anyhoo, what we need is for you to get back into Foodge’s office and get the name of his solicitor, so that you can find out just what he’s worth.” Acacia took a long drink from her glass, thinking it might be time to change to cocktails.

“Why do I want to find out what Foodge’s solicitor is worth?”  Fern was really struggling with this crazy plan, and hoped the waitress would return so she could order a low fat mudslide.

Mudslide

“No, find out how much Foodge is worth. He must have property, or a family trust, or investments, or, all of the above.”  Acacia grabbed Fern’s face with two hands to force her to look Acacia right in the eyes, like she used to do when they were kids.

“Above, the above.” Fern was trying to look over Acacia’s head to look at ‘all of the above’, but her head was trapped by Acacia’s hands, so Fern tried to roll her eyes upward. Unfortunately the woman seated at the next table thought that Fern was choking, so leapt up, placed both arms around her midriff and thrusting backwards in a poor imitation of the Heimlich manoeuvre. This forced all of Fern’s stomach contents upward, through her oesophagus, and out her mouth, straight into Acacia’s face.

Heimlich Manoeuvre a little bit wrong.....

Fern felt about a kilo lighter, but was still none the wiser. Acacia was covered in nibblies, chardonnay and grated carrot. The Heimlich manoeuvre lady stepped back with her hands grasped above her head, like a prizefighter, whilst the other patrons cheered. Acacia stormed out to the ladies, whilst Fern meekly followed.

Monday was a new day. Acacia had persuaded Fern to return to work at Foodge’s office. The appearance of Fern’s missing pay in her bank account gave the perfect excuse for her return. Fern had spent Saturday afternoon at the beauty salon (no, not that run down place near the Pig’s Arms) being waxed, plucked and streaked in anticipation. They had been over the plan all weekend, well, not all weekend, they’d spent Saturday night drinking cocktails, eschewing ‘Chardy’ for the first time in their lives.

Fern did everything as usual. She caught the 08:50 bus, which brought her to the bus stop right outside the doorway between the drycleaners and the kebab shop leading to the offices above. The nameplate on the door read, ‘Suite One. P.J Heinz, Esq. Debt Collectors. Suite Two. Fong Chin, Imports. Suite Three. F.Foodge, Esq. Private Agent.’ She climbed the threadbare stairs, trying not to hang onto the sticky timber handrail, but every second or third tread threatened to tip her backwards, out onto the footpath. Of course, the stilettos didn’t help!

Fern reached the landing, stepped forward to the Art Deco styled door, which she had to unlock. This wasn’t uncommon, as it was rare for Foodge to be in the office before 11:00. She entered the office and gasped. It had clearly been ransacked. Her filing system was in complete disarray. Biscuit tins of receipts had been tossed across the room. The drawers of her desk had been pulled all the way out, and threatened to collapse under the weight of spare lipstick and mascara. Her telephony headset (as she liked to call it) had been torn out of its socket, and tossed across the room, which didn’t really matter as she was unlikely to answer the telephone. She stepped into Foodge’s Private Office, at least, that’s what it said on the door. Everything was as it usually was. Spare Fedora and overcoat on a wooden stand. Row of unused pipes in a rack, next to a half empty bottle of  ‘Seven Seas’ rye and two shot glasses.

Fern sat at the desk, and started flicking though the teledex. There was nothing under ‘B’ for barista, or ‘C’ for coffee maker, then she remembered, and checked ‘B’ again for ‘barrister’ then ‘L’ for ‘lawyer, then, ‘S’ for ‘solicitor’. She was about to give up when she spied a card wedged under the edge of the Bakelite telephone. It read ‘Reid, Reid and Reid, Attorneys at Law and Notaries Public’. She was about to slip the card into her pocket, when she realised that it’s absence might give a clue to a sleuth like Foodge, so she transcribed the details into her notebook. Fern spent the rest of the day tidying her filing system, and going through old mascaras and lipsticks, discarding most of them, as they were no longer trendy.

That evening Acacia made Fern a celebratory meal as a reward for her good work; frozen calamari, steamed vegetables and rice, also frozen. They ate their meal in front of the television, laughing, whilst the ‘Fat Fighters’ struggled to run through an obstacle course whilst wearing weight jackets equivalent to their weight loss. Acacia turned to Fern. “ A toast, to Foodge, who’s gunna get a whole lot poorer”.

Foodge, meanwhile had spent the afternoon in the company of his ‘parents’ and now, his solicitor, Jonathon Reid, Solicitor at Large, as he liked to call himself, more for his size, rather than for being out and about. Mr Reid had telephoned Foodge early in the morning, around 11:30, to invite him for lunch. They met at 2:00pm at the Swindlers’ Arms, Mr Reid’s second office. They polished off steak in red wine, surely an oxymoron, as it tasted distinctly of cleaning fluid, washed down with Swindlers’ Arms Porter, a dense carbonated brew with a firm mouth feel, diesel fumes on the front of the palate, and a rather axillary nose.

“I’ll come straight to the point, not beat around the bush…you…er…know…ah…you’re, well, broke!” Mr Reid tried to soften the blow with a sardonic grin. All the while holding his pint up to the light, which was futile, as the fluid therein was entirely opaque. “Mr Swan approached my office last week. I know that you may see this as a breach of confidence, but, I am, after all, your legal guardian.”

Foodge’s little face fell. “Yes, of course Uncle Jonathon.” He started to nervously fiddle with his well-worn pack of Camels.

“Now, there’s nothing to fear. Mr Swan and I have approached the Taxation Department, and Mr Swan should have your tax matters sorted within a fortnight. I am prepared to release money from your trust fund in order to set things right on two conditions. One, you must fire that secretary. She’s the most indolent, incompetent, inept person I’ve met in my life, and, two, you modernise your office. New telephones, fax, computers, broadband, billing systems, and so on.” Mr Reid eyes moved from the glass to attempt to meet Foodge’s, who stared down at the cigarette packet in his left hand.

Foodge had failed to comprehend most of what his legal advisor had said. All he’d heard was, ‘fire Fern.’ He couldn’t fire her. She was a great secretary, punctual, always there by 9:30 or 10:00, and sometimes staying back until 5:00. She had a great accounting system, and even answered the ‘phone, sometimes, plus, she was a real good looker. Foodge mumbled some thing like, ‘I’ll think about it, thanks for lunch’ Then donned his hat, pocketed his Camels, and pushed his way through the crowd black suited legal and financial people, until he tumbled out onto the footpath. Foodge knew exactly what he needed; wedges and cold, hand brewed ale.

Foodge 22: Fern

03 Sunday Apr 2011

Posted by in Big M

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Story by Big M

Fern looked down at, not one, but three broken nails and cried. Not ‘trying to get my own way’ sort of crying, but the crying that comes from genuine hurt. She couldn’t afford to have her acrylic nails repaired; in fact, she could barely afford to eat. It was only that her sister, Acacia, still had an income that they weren’t pushing their belongings in Coleses trolleys, and wearing all of their coats at once, and searching the gutters for old stogies. This wasn’t entirely true, as their mother, none other than, One-Armed Amber, owned their spacious three-bedroom apartment in Lewisham Heights. Legend had it that she had lost her arm in a gun battle. The truth was that she was a victim to Thalidomide. Be that as it may, Amber was still pretty high up in the underworld, and still carried a Charter Arms Pink Lady .38 Special, because she liked the pink frame, as well as the stopping power of a .38.

Fern was furious with Foodge. The bastard owed her nine week’s pay, plus annual leave, plus over five month’s worth of unpaid superannuation. She’d been a damned good secretary. She could type at twenty words per minute. She kept his BAS statements less than two years behind. She had developed an advanced accounting system for the firm. She’d even gone to technical college to learn about the internet, and was capable of catching up with her favourite television shows at work. She could even send an email with an attachment. God knows where Foodge would find someone to replace her. Certainly not hanging around that stinking ‘Pigs Arms’.  Foodge used to come back to the office smelling of stale beer, cheap tomato sauce and that malodorous block of stuff from men’s urinals. No, he’d go a long way before he’d find someone to replace her. That’s why she was prepared to wait.

How long she could wait was a different question. She was a high maintenance lady. There was, of course, the nails, then the hair appointments, you know, streaks, cuts, placement of extensions, removal of extensions, spray tans, make-up, Zumba classes, going out Friday night, going out Saturday night, going out mid-week, shoes, and, of course, stockings, dresses, and, occasionally, a hat, or two.

 

Then there was poor Acacia, heartbroken by that bastard Dr James. She’d gone to work at the hospital with good intentions; to snare, sorry, marry a doctor, and ended up with a weak, spineless male nurse with a doctorate in nursing. Who’d ever heard of a doctor of nursing?  That generated more expenses; lunching out, ‘just to talk’, dinners out, to look for a new man, piccolos of champers or cocktails. The costs just kept adding up. Thank God for the Viza card!

Fern realised that it was getting late, and that; it was her turn to cook dinner. She began to rifle through the freezer looking at the titles of frozen ‘weight loss’ meals, before she settled on Pad Thai for two.  Was there no end to life’s demands?

 

Acacia had endured a difficult day, which was part of a difficult month. She’d asked to be moved from the position of Dr James’ secretary, to any other position in the hospital, so had been moved to the medical ward, to work as the relieving Ward Clerk. It was all go. The doctors and nurses demanded that she notify the Admissions Department of patient transfers within minutes of the event. She was expected to answer telephone enquiries, to go to Patient Records to collect old notes, and, to top it all off, she had to deal with patients!

Acacia decided it was time to plan for a miracle. She’d heard rumours that Fern’s boss, Foodge, was, in spite of his shambolic appearance, the recipient of a family trust, and that particular family was pretty well off. She started to surreptitiously search the patient database. Foodge’s record was pretty easy to find, and pretty unremarkable: one admission with a broken leg when he was seven years old. There were links to Foodge’s parents, and their medical records, which weren’t available, as they preceded the creation of the database, but, interestingly, it gave their address, which she quickly scribbled down on a ‘post-it-note’. A cunning plan started to foment. She couldn’t wait to get home to tell Fern.

Foodge 21: Foodge’s Financial Crisis

01 Friday Apr 2011

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Gumshoe hoofs it.

Story by Big M.

Foodge was completely discombobulated. Two events had shaken him to the core. One was the realisation that he was broke. Stony broke. Great Depression, jump from the thirteenth floor broke. The second was that, for the first time Foodge could remember, Pigs Arms was closed.

Foodge was, as these things go, the last to realise that his financial situation was untenable. The story had started to unfold on the previous day. The office telephone had been cut off. Foodge pressed the button on the office intercom to raise Fern’s awareness that her employer had some task for her to attended, but the was no answer. Foodge went to the outer office to find Fern’s desk empty, except for a note, ‘Won’t come back to work til ALL wages paid, Fern.’  Next to it were overdue notices for accounts unpaid; telephone, electricity, rent, dry-cleaning, and so on.

Foodge had, initially, refused to fall into depression. He picked up his passbook and Fedora, and marched down to the bank to sort things out. There was no sorting out at all. His bank balance was $2.71, which was about to be consumed by this month’s account keeping fees. Foodge thanked the teller very kindly for her help, donned his hat, and then walked two doors down to that other potential source of income, his accountant.

The accountant’s secretary apologised profusely, that Mr Swan was at a meeting and would Mr Foodge care to make an appointment?  Foodge declined, stating that he might happen to run into Mr Swan while he was out and about. Foodge did indeed run into Mr Swan, at the Swindler’s Arms, a small tavern frequented by the accounting and banking fraternity. Mr Swan was quick to point out that, whilst Foodge’s tax return may generate a refund, the fines from seven late BAS statements would probably leave Foodge with a net loss. Foodge thanked Swanee, then shuffled out into the street, only to wander back to office. How long he’d be able to use the term ‘my office’ was an unknown, not as complex as a Donald Rumsfeld unknown, but an unknown none the less!

Foodge sat at his desk enjoying a cup of Nescafe Gold when he hit upon a brilliant idea. There must be some accounts payable to him. He began to go through Fern’s account keeping, which, whilst unconventional, was easy to follow. One biscuit tin contained all accounts, which had been paid for this financial year. Previous year’s accounts were stored in other tins. Unpaid accounts occupied another tin. Foodge picked out the accounts with the largest balances, and then proceeded to telephone his debtors. This brought him full circle to the event that initiated today’s activities. He decided to deliver the Final Notices by hand, but soon realised that the Zephyr was almost completely devoid of fuel, and that Foodge couldn’t afford to fill her. Foodge decided that a fit, young, healthy person such as himself, could easily walk to most of the addresses on his list, so grabbed the ‘Gregor’s’ from the glove compartment and, with his detective’s pencil, charted the most efficient walking route.

Foodge’s journey was seriously hampered by the fact that his 1968 edition of Gregor’s included roads that had been turned into cul-de-sacs, pedestrian paths that no longer existed; in fact, there were almost entire suburbs that Mr Gregor had failed to foresee. On the plus side, there were plenty of bicycle paths, which, once Foodge learned to stay on the left, and not stagger all over the place, became pleasant, and reasonably direct routes. He’d even spied Emmjay (the former ABC Wardrobe Manager) in the distance, clad in lime green and black, peddling at a furious pace. Foodge wondered quietly to himself about the role of Lyra and bright colours in cycling. He couldn’t figure it out, but, then again, he’d never quite mastered the concept of bicycle riding himself.

Foodge had, surprisingly, completed his deliveries by the close of business, and had even collected a couple of hundred dollars from one lady who thanked him for the photos, and told him to ‘piss off.’ The two ‘c’ notes burnt a hole in Foodge’s wallet, so he, rather wisely, invested them at a TAB. Surprisingly, ‘Carntkeepup’ came in at 42 to one.

First thing, the next day, the cheque was immediately deposited into Foodge’s bank. This should have made Foodge happy, but he was so far in debt that this would only pay for the outstanding rent utilities and Fern’s wages, once the cheque cleared, in five working days. Foodge decided that he would throw himself at Merv’s mercy, and that, in spite of Merv’s threat to refuse Foodge service until the tab was paid in full, he would present himself at the Gentleman’s Bar of the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle, show Merv the balance on his bank book, and hope for some compassion.

Foodge walked, or rather, shuffled from the bank to the Pigs Arms. His gait had altered since yesterday’s long sojourn, as he had a shin splint on his left leg, and had been up half the night with cramps in some muscle he was sure that even the great anatomist Andreas Vesalius had not discovered (it was Peroneus Longus, but we’ll let Foodge have his fantasy).  He rounded the corner where the old tannery stood, vacant and decaying, and couldn’t believe his eyes. The hotel was shut, blinds down, and a piece of paper fluttering from the front door:

Congratulations to Janet and Merv, Viv & Ian (not identical) were born last evening at the Royal Inner Western Cyberian Maternity Hospital and Public Library.  Mother and babies all well. Merv is now responding to the treatment.

Foodge was gob smacked. The Pigs Arms was closed. He had no money. Where in the hell would he be able to get a drink? Oh, and Merv and Janet were parents. He stood there, rooted to the footpath, staring at the doors, almost willing them to open. Then the miracle happened. One door swung open, then the other. The space was almost entirely filled by a dark shadow. Then the shadow stepped forward. “Gooday, Foodge, wanna pint, it’s on the house?” Young Wes ushered him in. Foodge never felt safer, nor more at home, than just at that moment.

Geoffrey the Inept VIII – Uva Takes a Break

07 Monday Feb 2011

Posted by in Big M

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Heaven Stent

 

By Big M

The first Senior Nurse’s Meeting of 2011 wasn’t as harmonious as it could have been. Dr James was keen to show of his abilities as a great administrator by producing a power point presentation, complete with graphs and pie charts, of the costs saved by closing wards over the Christmas/New Year period. He was tanned and relaxed after three weeks of annual leave, most of it spent either, at the beach, or indoors with Acacia. He was wearing a crisp, new, white shirt and paisley tie, both purchased at the post Christmas sales. Acacia was poised, ready to take the minutes. She gave him one of those ‘come hither’ smiles that made him feel weak at the knees, amongst other anatomic regions.

James was about to launch into his rehearsed tirade when Uva Kent cut in. “Don’t you dare address this meeting with talk about budget cuts, bottom lines and benchmarking!” She angrily ground her Camel into a Styrofoam cup. “Your penny-pinching staffing cuts have cost this hospital a hundred and seventeen thousand in overtime, over three weeks. Twenty-three complaints about lack of nursing care. Four back injuries because of a shortage in wardsmen, also cut to the bone. Nine to twelve ill patients lying on trolleys in Emergency every night because of lack of beds…”

James held his hand up. “Sister Kent, we are still under budget, because state health will pay the overtime from its emergency fund. This hospital may well have saved the most money on wages over December-January.”

Uva was livid. “Forget about special funds. The total monetary cost is exorbitant, plus the loss of face in the media, as well as injuries from which some staff may never recover.”

“Oh, I really think you’re over exaggerating.” James simpered.

“Exaggerating…” Uva suddenly clutched at her chest. Her face was grey, and her lips moved like a carp on dry land. She collapsed to the floor.

Tess was at her side immediately. “She’s got a pulse. Call a MET Team, and someone grab some oxygen.”

Acacia rang the switchboard, whilst the Marie, the Director of Children’s Services ran to the nearest ward, returning with an oxygen cylinder on a trolley, with various masks and nasal cannulae. Tess quickly fitted a mask, all the time trying to reassure Uva that everything would be OK. Uva just looked up at Tess, clutching her chest with a look of absolute terror in her eyes. James continued to tap away at his laptop at the boardroom table, convinced it was all a sham.

The MET team arrived, and quickly placed an IV cannula, took some blood then ran off an ECG. The lead doctor started speaking on his mobile phone. “Yeah, frail looking, peripherally shut down…T-wave inversion… yeah, you know Sister Kent.” Uva was quickly bundled up onto a trolley, the MET nurse continued to infuse some morphine as they move off to Coronary Care. Tess never left her side, occasionally skipping sideways to get through doorways, all the while holding Uva’s hand, and murmuring encouraging words.

Uva woke up in Coronary Care. Tess was holding her hand. Her throat was a dry, and she was desperate for a smoke. There was an IV in each hand, and ECG electrodes across her chest. Tess leaned forward, her eyes glistened with tears. “You’re awake. Thank Christ, you gave us a scare.” She proffered some water from a plastic cup, with a straw. Uva took a long sip.

Dr Kumar and Dr Campbell swept into the cubicle. “Ah, you’re awake. You’ve had a big inferior infarct, so we’ve inserted a couple of stents, but your heart and lungs are in pretty bad shape. A couple of things; no more smoking. We’ve already started some patches. Your cholesterol is sky high, so you need to start on a statin, and you will, when you’ve recovered start some exercise.” Dr Kumar looked very stern.

Dr Campbell stepped forward, grinning, giving her a little hug. “Thank God you’re OK, girly.” With more than a hint of a Scottish brogue. The two cardiologists left, leaving Tess and Uva alone to listen to the reassuring beeps of Uva’s ECG.

“Tess, there’s one thing you can do for me.”

Tess leaned forward. “Yes, anything.”

“I’m busting for a wee. Help me up.”

Tess shook her head, and then headed for the pan-room. While she was gone, there was an almighty crash from outside the curtains. Two nurses rush in to help the hapless visitor, who’d, not only tripped over the ‘Wet Floor’ sign, but also, had knocked over a mop and bucket. When they helped him to his feet, there stood Geoffrey, half covered in dirty water, a dry bunch of flowers held triumphantly in one hand. “Oh…er…I’m sorry…er Sister.”

Uva held out her hand. Geoffrey stepped forward, and took it. “I was…we were…all so worried….”

“Thanks Geoffrey.” Uva rasped. “I’m a tough old cow…” She finished the sentence with a rasping cough. Geoffrey passed her some water, and helped her sit up. Tess arrived with a bedpan.

“I see you’ve found a younger, male nurse to look after you.” Tess grinned.

“Oh, I’m sorry… I should go.” Geoffrey started backing out of the room, walking straight into the ‘Wet Floor’ sign, this time narrowly avoiding another fall.

Uva spent five days in hospital, and then was taken to Tess’ house to be fussed over, cooked for, and watched like a hawk for any evidence of cigarettes! Naturally, the house overflowed with flowers from various wards, and well-wishers, as well as a case of shiraz and a bottle of gin with a box of Anginine taped to the side, with a plain card, ‘ Get well soon, you old bugger, love from the MaNICS*!’ Uva had tears in her eyes every time a gift arrived, but was careful to hide them from Tess, who seemed to thrive on caring for her.

Dr James was furious. Firstly, Kent, and her cronies, had refused to utilise his award-winning PENIS during the Christmas-New Year rush. Secondly, both Kent and Tickle had taken time off unexpectedly, which meant two people would be acting in higher positions, and being paid accordingly. This would ruin his finely tuned budget. Thirdly, for reasons, which completely escaped him, Acacia had decided to not move into his townhouse, and had called him a ‘dispassionate bastard’. She had also requested a transfer away from the position of his secretary. Ah well, he thought, at least Lynx have a new ‘chick magnet’ fragrance on the market!

*Male Nurses’ Imbibers Club.

Geoffrey the Inept VII – Geoffrey Draws a Short Straw

26 Wednesday Jan 2011

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By Big M

Geoffrey had drawn the short straw, again. Night shift over the New Year weekend. He’d settled into ‘walking wounded’ area at the back of the Emergency Department. New Year’s Eve was, naturally, busy to the point of chaos. He’d ended up with some patients who’s level of illness was beyond his abilities, and above the level of acuity for his area, yet, he’d held it together, at the expense of, even, getting one short break each night.

 

Even Sister Kent had come down to help. She relieved as the night supervisor over Christmas and New Year to allow ‘the girls’ with ‘littlies’ to take a break. She was in her element, suturing cut faces, inserting IVs, taking blood, and lending plenty of shoulders on which to cry.  At one stage it was complete mayhem, a couple of car accidents generated five adults and two small children, with injuries, there were two victims of separate glassings, who would need plastic surgery, and a bikie, who’d been admitted unconscious, had woken up thinking he was Cassius Clay. Sister Kent walked in, and barked some commands at some junior doctors and nurses. The bikie collapsed as soon as the injection hit his thigh. He was soon in the recovery position, on a bed with some very pleasant medicine coursing through his veins. Everything seemed more manageable at this stage.

Uva tried to exit via the back of ER, when she ran into Geoffrey, who was trying to admit an elderly lady. “Want a hand, Geoffrey?”

“Well, no-one else will, so, yes.” Geoffrey and the ambulance officer had just transferred her onto the bed, and were still trying to assess her.

 

“What’s your diagnosis?”

“She’s got a deficit in global awareness…”

“Not mumbo jumbo uni talk, what’s wrong with her.” Uva had no time for any bullshit.

“Well, she’s disorientated, and may be in pain.”

They both quickly assessed poor old Mrs MacDonald. She couldn’t answer any questions coherently, and moaned. The reason for her moans was pretty obvious. “What do you think is wrong with that leg, Geoffrey?”

“Broken?”

Yes, it’s bloody broken, but where! Here’s a clue. Old lady, probable osteoporosis, externally rotated right thigh, must be a fractured NOF.”

Geoffrey had never heard of a bone called a nof. “I don’t think there’s such a thing.” He thought himself rather clever, what with his university training, and Sister Kent probably hadn’t finished high school.

“Neck of Femur, you dill! Why do you think she’s disorientated?”

“Dementia?”

“No, the ambulance picked her up from her home, where she’s probably been lying on the floor for hours. Uva was getting exasperated. There was no doctor available, so Uva helped Geoffrey immobilize the leg, then inserted an IV cannula, through which, she took various blood tests. She then started some IV fluid to slowly re-hydrate the patient in preparation for her operation.

Geoffrey was amazed. He’d always been taught to model himself on nurses with degrees and qualifications; yet, old Sister Kent could out-perform the lot of them. She went to harass a doctor to write up the request forms, X-Ray form, IV fluid and order some pain relief whilst Geoffrey did another set of observations on his other patients. He narrowly missed being vomited over, then rushed out to get mop and bucket. At least he’d learnt to duck.

Uva rushed off to counsel a family about organ donation, from their daughter, whilst Geoffrey assembled the notes o his new patient. He’d barely sat down when a wards man appeared with a post-op patient on a trolley. The nurse in charge was loudly remonstrating with him about the fact that ER wasn’t a recovery ward. His response was that he only pushed patients from recovery to the wards, and, as far as he was concerned, this was her ward. The nurse was then heard to say, rather loudly, that she’d ‘only’ had a D and C; so silly, bloody Geoffrey could look after her. Whist Geoffrey was personally insulted; he thought it terrible that a patient should be spoken about like that. He stepped forward, and pushed the trolley into the end of his little ward, whilst the recovery nurse quickly handed over. “ Ten weeks… miscarriage…D and C…obs have been stable.” Then disappeared.

Geoffrey didn’t have much idea about ‘D and C’, as he’d fallen asleep during his gynaecology lectures (he hadn’t really, he just couldn’t bring himself to look at the pictures), but thought to himself they probably need the usual observations, plus some check on the level of bleeding, ‘down there’. He pulled the curtains around the bed, introduced himself then started on the usual blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. He didn’t know how to go about checking ‘down there’, so decided to go for it. “Mrs Jones, I’m really, really sorry, but I have to check ‘down there’!” He blurted.

Mrs Jones promptly started to cry. The sobs were interspersed with snatches of words. “Second miscarriage…my little baby…Tom doesn’t even know…that nurse was so rude, only a D and C.”

Geoffrey had no idea of what to do with crying women, or, for that matter, men. He held her hand and said. “ I’m really sorry about the baby. I can’t imagine how you must feel, but my Mum always said she had lots of miscarriages, before she had me. Anyway, if I can just check for bleeding we can call Tom and take it from there.” Geoffrey finished his observations, brought a phone over, plugged it in, and called Mr Jones, who was working over in WA. He explained what had happened, then handed the phone to Mrs Jones. As he turned to leave he slipped in another patch of vomit from one of his patients.

Geoffrey turned to rush to the change room when his little old lady called out. “Porter, porter. Hurry up and get my bags onto the flyer. There’s tuppence in for you!”

“Hello Mrs MacDonald, do you know where you are?”

Mrs MacDonald looked around, suddenly less sure that she was standing on a train platform, in 1961, and more sure that something had happened to her, that had landed her in some alien place. Geoffrey could feel the vomit wet against his skin. “Mrs MacDonald, you’ve had a fall, and hurt your leg, you’re in hospital waiting for an operation.”

Mrs MacDonald looked at her hand, with the IV, then down at her leg.  She suddenly seemed to take it all in, then looked at Geoffrey. “Then why are you covered in filth, young man? Go on, clean yourself up! “She ordered.

Geoffrey returned to Emergency to do another round of observations and found that two of the drunks wanted to discharge themselves against medical advice, which the Resident Medical Officer was quite happy to allow. Geoffrey then called a friend for Mrs Jones, who came promptly to collect her. He’d offered to take her to the shower, but she declined, just quickly dressing in her friend’s spare clothes. She made a point of shaking Geoffrey’s hand, as she left, her eyes still red and puffy.

Mrs MacDonald lay in bed. “You look a bit better now, Porter.” She had a twinkle in her eye. You can call me Peg, what am I supposed to call you?”

“Mr…er…no…Geoffrey.” He smiled. “I’m the nurse who’s been looking after you. We’ve been trying to contact your daughter, but her mobile’s switched off. I guess it is New Year’s Eve…sorry…day.”

“You mean I missed the fireworks, love, must’ve been out of it for a while.” Peg seemed amused by this, but she had a fair dose of morphine, earlier.

Two big bleary-eyed men in theatre scrubs marched in. “Peg MacDonald?”

“Over here.” Geoffrey indicated. “Fractured right NOF.”

The two doctors busied themselves over Peg, and then helped the wards man move her off to the operating theatre. “See you, Porter!” She yelled as she went off.

It was just on five, and Uva sat at her desk, her head in her hands. It was like this every holiday. Wards and clinics closed, staff given leave, theatres and radiology barely staffed, at the busiest time of the year. There were still ten patients in the Emergency Department with no hospital beds to go to, plus four in the recovery ward. This would be partially remedied by the next shift, when she’d opened a half ward staffed by casuals or full timers on overtime. This would cost a bundle. No doubt bean counters like Dr James would claim to have saved the hospital money, by shuffling costs around. Plus she’d fielded various complaints from patients, or their relatives. She shook her head, and then finished her tepid black coffee in one gulp.

Geoffrey was nervous as he knocked on Sister Kent’s office door. “Come.” She rasped from too many cigarettes.

“Geoffrey, sit down…coffee?”

Geoffrey glanced at the coffee pot, which had clearly sat at low tide for many hours, from the telltale stain three centimetres up from the base. “Er…ah…no thanks.” He mumbled, thinking that coffee was to butter him up for the bad news.

“Geoffrey, I’ve had a very serious complaint from one of your patients, overnight.”

Geoffrey’s throat went dry, and his heart rate shot up to about one hundred and ten.

“The patient was intending to take her complaint to the Area Health Service, as well as State Health. She said that the reason that she was going to leave the complaint at hospital level, was the excellent care and compassion she received from the male nurse who cared for her in Emergency.”

Geoffrey blinked and didn’t know what to say. “So, who is this male nurse?”

“You, you dill.” Uva Kent’s eyes crinkled at the corners, then she smiled. “Mrs Jones said that you were the only person who offered to ring her husband, or even recognise that she had lost a baby!”

Geoffrey’s heart rate dropped back to normal. “Thanks, I didn’t really know what to do, so I held her hand and said that I was sorry. Thanks, by the way, for helping me with old Peg. You showed me that even you old, hospital trained nurses know some stuff.”

“Geoffrey, I know that the uni tries to inculcate you younguns with the idea that us ‘old’ hospital trained RNs are stupid, but just open your eyes and look at what some of us old RNs have achieved. By the way, most of us have been to uni, albeit, late in life, I have two Master’s degrees, and am thinking about enrolling in a PhD. Tess, I mean Sister Tickle is half way through a degree in engineering. There are nurses around the hospital who are published authors of crime, biographies, history, and so on.”

Geoffrey was gob smacked. “You’re right, we were told from day one to watch out for the old RNs who knew nothing. I’m sorry Sister Kent.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, Geoffrey, you’ve worked hard these last two weeks, and, by the way, if you ditch the strangely worded ‘nursing diagnoses’ and think about what’s actually wrong with the patient, you can easily plan your care from there, now, off you go”. Uva already had another Camel in the corner of her mouth, a one eye half closed as she lit it with a disposable lighter. It was clear that the interview was over.

Pig’s Psalm 23 – the Grossemm Variation

08 Saturday Jan 2011

Posted by in Big M, Pig Psalms

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Icon by Lehan Winifred Ramsay

By Big M

Merv is my Publican,

I shall not want.

He pulleth me Bitter,

He restores my palate

He leadeth me to the Gents,

He restores my intoxication.

He makes me lie down,

In gutters grey.

Though, I may stagger home through the streets of Lewisham,

I fear no poofter bashing,

O’Hoo and Foodge, they comfort me.

Granny prepares a table before me,

Wedges, beans ‘n’ cackle berries.

She anoints me sausage roll with sauce.

My glass canoe overflows.

Surely Trotter’s Best shall fill me,

All the days of my life.

I shall drink in the Pigs Arms, forever.

Amen.

Foodge 20 – Foodge Has a Narrow Escape

02 Sunday Jan 2011

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By Big M

Foodge woke with a start. It was still early, eleven, or eleven thirty, by the way the light slanted through the aluminium Venetian blinds, illuminating dust motes, which seemed to have lives of their own. The groans emanating from the mound of bedclothes on the other side of the bed were a dead give away that he wasn’t alone. ‘Mmm.’ He thought to himself. ‘Must’ve got lucky.’ The mound of blankets started to move, and a blond head emerged. “Hello, big boy.” Foodge sat up in bed, grinning away. He remembered buying Victoria a bottle of ‘champagne’ at the Pigs Arms, and then everything else was a blank.

Victoria sat up. “Lovely room, did you decorate it yourself, dear?”

“Well, no, it, err, kinda decorated itself.”

“Coffee’s the first order of the day.” Victoria stood up, deftly wrapping the sheet around her tall body. She wasn’t beautiful, or even pretty, thought Foodge, but she sure was handsome. She wandered out to the kitchen, where she promptly started opening and closing cupboards. “Where’s the percolator, dear?”

“No percolator, just Blend Forty Three in the cupboard above the kettle.”  Foodge dressed quickly. An experienced PI like himself was never off duty, so, there was no room for a woman in his life. He was going to have to break it to her gently. He went through to the kitchen. “Look, Victoria, I didn’t mean to give you the wrong impression…err… um… didn’t mean it to be a one night stand.”

Victoria laughed. “Stand. One night stand?  There was no stand, dear. There’s a serious lack of ‘stand’, and I suspect the brewer has something to do with your droop!”

Foodge wasn’t used to the cryptic talk of women. “It might be better if you just left.”

Victoria turned on her bare heel and flounced through to the bedroom. “That’s alright, dear, I have a back-waxing appointment, anyway. She dressed quickly then marched out the front door. “Blend Forty Three, indeed!”

‘Gosh, she’s tall in heels.’ Thought Foodge. ‘Women’.

The main bar at the Pigs was open. Foodge thought it wise to walk down and pick up the Zephyr from the parking lot. Merv was drenched in sweat from his morning workout. A glass canoe found its way across the bar. Wes stuck his head around the door. “Uncle Merv, what will I do with these out-of-date cartons of cigarettes?”

“ ‘Ow many?”

“Hundreds.”

“Oh, shit.” Merv had forgotten that he’d allowed Lenny the Lurch use the shed, just before he went to Long Bay, for a long stretch. “Leave ‘em there, use the other shed.” Wes was trying to find a space to lock up his Charlie.

Foodge looked around. The pub was back to normal after Granny’s brews had come back on tap. The place actually looked a lot cleaner. “Had a spring clean, Merv?”

“Nah, Wes’s not paying any board, so he’s doing a bit of bouncing, bit of cleaning, even taps the odd keg if Granny’s busy. Plus, Janet’s been poorly, you know, the doc told ‘er to rest, you know, with twins, ‘an all.”

“How far along?” Foodge had no idea why he asked, as he had no idea about how ‘far along’ a pregnancy should be.

“Eight months, although it feels like eighteen.” Merv smiled at his little joke. “Doc reckons ‘e might need to seduce ‘er closer to the time.”

Foodge nodded knowingly, not entirely sure why a doctor would ‘seduce’ a pregnant lady. He stared into his glass and was about to say something about getting lucky when Wes stuck his head around the door again. “What about that female impersonator, Victoria, pity the bloke he took home!” Wes laughed.

“Oh…ah…female impersonators.” Foodge blushed, inwardly thankful for the brewer who’d induced his droop.

“You looked pretty friendly with her.” Wes gave a knowing wink.

“Oh…err…yes, Victoria’s an old friend…err…aquaintance.used her as a snout.

“They never get the walk right, do they?”

Foodge thought that Wes was being as cryptic as Victoria, earlier this morning. “Err…no. You doing anything tonight, it is New Years Eve?”

“No, I’ll help Uncle Merv and Granny. Big party here, you know, Angles, Bowling Ladies, Male Nurses Union, you know, usual crowd. Oh, shit, get out of that, you bloody useless creature!!” Granny’s goat was chowing down on the high tension lead of Wes’s Charlie.

‘It wasn’t the usual crowd.’ Thought Foodge. JL was MIA, hopefully not in gaol, Manne was supposed to be overseas with Neville, but Neville denied any knowledge, Gez and the Mysterious H were busy in their new place, as were ‘shoe and Asty. Winnie was till in Japan, but, thanks to modern technology, was able to send a telegram now and then. The famous Greek playwright and his missus never turned up. To top it all off, O’Hoo was doing a cricket tour with, soon to be, Superintendent Rouge.  ‘Well. ‘ Thought Foodge. ‘Happy New Years Eve to ‘em all, whether at home, or away!’

Bumper Christmas Edition 2 – Geoffrey the Inept 8

24 Friday Dec 2010

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By Big M

Dr James woke early, and panicked, because he couldn’t move his left arm. Had he had a stroke? Some peripheral nerve palsy? He forced his eyes open, and made himself look at the spectacle of his paralysed arm. He wasn’t paralysed at all, just pins and needles from the weight of Acacia’s head, using his bicep as a pillow. His heart skipped a beat, then a smile spread across his face. That’s right. He’d taken her out for a meal, including a couple of bottles of Barossa Pearl, and they’d found their way back to his place. His gloating was disturbed by the sound of the neighbour’s wiper snipper howling like a hive of angry bees. Every bloody Saturday! Anyway, what to do about breakfast?

Tess had been driving for just over an hour. She had coffee in the thermos, thickly sliced pork and mustard sandwiches on the passenger seat, and Michael Buble in the CD player. She was heading north to visit a timber mill, in order to check out some tallow-wood flooring for her dining room. Tess had inherited her dad’s penchant for wood-working, plus his house, and all of his tools, which remained as clean, sharp and well organised as when he’d left them. This hadn’t surprised anyone, as she’d been raised by her father, a builder by trade, who’d taught her everything he knew about timber. The only reason she hadn’t followed in his footsteps was that, in those days, girls either became teachers or nurses.

Tess still missed her father, but felt close to him when shaping, sanding, nailing, or just being near wood. She’d managed to maintain the old house, even replacing a couple of bearers, and construct a deck, with no assistance. This week, the god of timber-willing, she’d learn the secret of secret nailing!

Uva had been up and about since five, smoking and drinking acrid coffee. She was usually up early, woken by an insistent cough, which seemed to settle with five or six ciggies. She was at in front of her computer typing furiously, as a bought of inspiration had led to another seven pages of her current novel. She had discovered a talent for writing romance a couple of years back, so continued to supplement her income by publishing a couple of novels a year. It was good for her mind and forced her to continue to read widely, as well as observe those around her. It also forced her to forget the stresses of work.

Geoffrey had been up early. Not because he wanted to. No, Mum had woken him early to get on with the lawn mowing, edges, sweeping and pruning. He was stood in the driveway, broom in hand, staring at the peeling barge-boards, wondering who was going to paint them, when Morticia arrived. She was ebullient, waving a letter in her hand. Geoffrey smiled. “Good news, my love.”

Morticia hated being called ‘my love’, as they hadn’t even consummated their relationship, but, today nothing could upset her. “Yes, good news, I’ve been accepted as an Undertaker’s Apprentice in Melbourne. They want me to start in two weeks.

Geoffrey could feel his heart as it bottomed out, somewhere between his prostate and his back passage. “But, two weeks, what about us?” A small tear welled up in his left eye.

Morticia had been so excited about her ‘foot in the door’ in the world of undertaking, that she’d plain forgot about ‘us’. In fact, ‘us’ had never really been that important to her. She quickly thought on her feet. “Geoffrey, love, you know that Undertaking is my life’s ambition. If you reeeaaally love me, you’d be happy to let me go!”

It was Christmas Eve. Geoffrey was feeling low. Morticia had already left for Melbourne, and had broken up with him just the evening before setting off in her blue Barina, stacked with clothes and textbooks on undertaking He was doubly depressed because he had been allocated to work a rotating roster in the Emergency Department, as the clinics were closed for December. He’d drawn the short straw, night shift, and, because of his lack of experience, was looking after the ‘walking wounded’, mainly belligerent drunks, out the back.

It was past 02:00 hours. Geoffrey had cleaned the beer and pizza smelling vomit from his shirt, and narrowly dodged a punch in the head from one of his clients, when he heard a voice, way off in the distance. “Ho, Ho, Ho.”

“What.” He called out. “Who’s there?”

“Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas!”

Geoffrey blinked, then looked around to see if his patients could see what he was seeing. “Is that really you, Santa?”

“Yes, it is my is, my lad, Merry Christmas!” Santa reached out and shook Geoffrey’s hand, then patted him on the shoulder. “ Merry Christmas, there must be some good little children, here in Emergency who want to see Santa?” One of the paediatric nurses rushed in, taking the merry old gent by the hand, and pointing him in the direction of Paediatric Emergency. Geoffrey stood stock still. He still couldn’t believe his senses. He’d seen Santa, the real Santa!

He was jolted out of his reverie by an elf. Not an ordinary elf, a female elf. A very attractive female elf. One with all of the curves, in just the right places. A very attractive curvaceous female elf, who worked in the paediatric ward. Not only that, but the attractive, curvaceous, female, paediatric nurse-elf, gave him a long kiss on the lips, and a bag of lollies, before rushing away to help Santa on his mission.

Geoffrey had a sudden thought. I’ll apply for a job in Paediatrics!

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL OF THE PIGLETS!