Posted on by JonnyB

“Excuse me?”

There is a voice. I turn from the post box to locate its source.

A man is ambling over from a small jeep. The engine still runs. He is clearly the source of the “excuse me.” I allow my letter to fall from my hands into the post box’s cluttered womb, easing my wrist from its slot and giving him my full attention.

Grey-haired, he is wearing immaculate cream slacks. Retirement bling.

“I don’t suppose you know where these agents are based?” He gesticulates towards the ‘For Sale’ sign on the bungalow over the road.

A number of houses around mine are for sale – I do not know whether to take this personally or not. This particular one right opposite has been on the market since about Wednesday March 14th, and I am excited that I might be meeting a potential new neighbour. New people!!! I study him closely so I can report back to everybody.

I give him the information he requires. He asks me what living in the Village is like, and I offer him long examples of how we all know what each other is doing and just pop in to each others’ houses to say hello at any time of day or night, sometimes when we have been drinking. It is a neighbourly community like that. He looks a bit less friendly after this, and looks over his shoulder several times as he retreats to his car before driving off at some speed, doubtless to catch the estate agents before lunch.

He seemed like a pleasant chap, and I am determined to stick to my parting words to him, which were offering him a hand with moving in.

I make sure to take the number of his car. He is not from round here, after all, and he could have been looking at houses for sale with a view to committing some crime.

There is no more excitement. I return back over the road to the cottage, to tell all to the LTLP.

Posted on by JonnyB

The Village Pub goes momentarily dark.

There is a man standing in the doorway. In fact he’s not standing, he’s looming. He blinks slightly before adjusting his loom and striding up to the bar.

“I come to do your security,” he booms from his loom. The accent is Russian, or Ukranian, or from one of the scarier –stans.

“My name is Igor,” he adds, with magnificent cliché.

The New Barman gazes up at him, flabbergasted. The man is built, if not exactly like a brick shithouse, like a shithouse of a particularly solid wooden-frame construction. He stares down at the New Barman querulously.

There is no indication as to whether he is making an offer or a threat. We do not have much experience of protection rackets here in the Village. Sizing the situation up, I decide that it would be better not to try to help. Short Tony and Big A seem to have the same idea, as does everybody else in the bar, and there is an immediate wave of shoe-studying.

“I’ll get the boss,” squeaks the New Barman.

The Well-Spoken Barman ambles through.

“I do your security,” our visitor repeats to him.

“Ah. I’m not sure we really need anybody on security,” replies the Well-spoken Barman in his disarmingly amiable way. “I don’t think. Do we?” he turns to us for some help.

“That is a particularly interesting shoe,” I say to Short Tony. “And so is that one.”

“Here,” demands the visitor. “On my piece of paper. It says ‘Village Pub.’”

“Ah. Well ‘Village Pub’ is quite a common name for a pub,” counters the Well-Spoken Barman with impressive bravery. “Look. ‘Village Pub, Wisbech’ it says.”

“Where is Wisbech?”

“In Cambridgeshire.”

“Oh.”

The room dims once more as he steps out through the doorway. We resume our pints and are very careful not to even smile.

Posted on by JonnyB

I sit with the Baby, playing mindlessly.

From her collection of wooden blocks, I take a semicircular one. Placing it upside-down on the carpet, I can bash down on one end to send it spinning into the air.

The Baby is delighted by this. She laughs heartily. I have an audience!!! I do it a few more times, to more laughter. Then I start catching it, which provokes utter hilarity.

She is clearly a simpleton. But it is brilliant. There is this hammer-blow sense that I have somebody who really admires me. This is a new feeling. I mean, I know that my written output is widely-read and laughed it by the halfwit community, but this is different – a real live thing.

I sneakily pass the block into my other hand whilst catching it. The Baby is agog at its mysterious disappearance, then creases up again when I reveal its whereabouts. She might even have wet herself, although she wets herself all the time so it would be difficult to establish the cause as my funny block trick in a court of law (if wetting yourself was illegal).

My dad used to do tricks like this with me. And Granddad used to make a coin appear out of my ear. The thought that I am now doing this with my own Baby is almost unbearably poignant. It is just a simple trick, but she loves me for it. All I am doing is flicking a block into the air and pretending that it has disappeared.

Boooooo – my dad’s and granddad’s tricks were probably shit as well. They were not magicians after all. It is a depressing realisation. I really looked up to them, as well.

I flick the block again. Twelve minutes have passed. The LTLP will be home in seven hours. A rabbit runs across the garden.

My vegetables arrive!!!

Posted on by JonnyB

I thank the Vegetable Delivery Lady as she hands over the heavy box. There have been a succession of Vegetable Delivery Ladies since the original one hastily moved out of the county, plus the occasional man with a beard. I wave as she goes on her way.

She has a cheerful disposition, as have her predecessors. I do not blame her. Sometimes I think that I would love to drive around delivering vegetables all day and chatting to customers, especially fit ones like me (but women fit ones), instead of the stressful job that I have, viz looking after the Baby and sending important emails ect ect. It would get me out of the house and stop me from going mad from the lack of visitors or human contact, and be a lot cheaper than pills or drink.

There is a cabbage in the box!!! I make excited noises about it to some friends who are visiting, despite the fact that nobody ever visits. They are unimpressed. I tell them that I like cabbage. They appear to regard this as an affectation. I point out that I had served them delicious cabbage the previous evening for dinner. Controversy grumbles over the cabbage issue.

We go to the pub for lunch. I order a pie and some cabbage. I sense that they think that I have done this in a macho ‘I am going to eat more cabbage and pretend to like it even though I don’t really’ way. They are wrong, as I would have ordered just cabbage if this was the case, as it would have been cheaper without the pie. Both are delicious.

There is left over roast chicken for dinner tonight. I am going to warm it up, and serve it with some cabbage.

My visitors have left.