An irregular, irreverent, post-modern account of the surreal, the ordinary, and the bizarre happenings on and around the Felia lavender farm in Crete

Sunday, December 24, 2006

Atlas shrugged

George picked himself up off of the tiled floor of the toilet. He wadded some toilet paper (thank god they had changed from Izal this year - dinosaurs) and attempted unsuccessfully to staunch the flow of blood - it was on the tiles - it was on his shirt front - it was on the basin. George cried.

Sonia settled herself down on the sofa and picked up the remote. She tuned into the shopping channel and lay back in the cushions (thank god she had weaseled a sofa out of that meeting). She pulled her candlewick dressing gown more snugly around her shoulders. She checked that the curtains were still drawn. She heaved a massive sigh and began to sob noisily.

Boris moved swiftly among the shoppers - invisibly. He pulled the pea jacket closer. He pulled the stocking cap lower. From a distance and only if anyone had noticed him they would have taken him for Jack Nicholson he thought. A young Jack Nicholson. With his right hand thrust deep into the pocket of the coat he rumpled the scruffy piece of paper. Comforted he strode out toward the tube station. It would be good to see Bruno again - it was a long time since they had worked together. The cruel grin that he was known for spread across his uneven mouth and he laughed out loud. Boris laughed all the way to the booking office.

Alex was out of the door and on his way. He checked his appearance in every other shop window he passed - more would be considered vain. Good old fashioned styptic pencil had taken care of the shaving nick and so his immaculately white shirt collar was safe and pristine. His trouser broke perfectly over the black kid shoe. Black socks with clocks. A professional would have remarked disparagingly that the jacket of his suit had been dry cleaned less often than the trousers - always a mistake with a suit - but he had dismissed his worry - nobody would notice. His itinerary for the day was firmly memorised. A zones 1 to 3 travelcard would cover it off. He stopped before a small jobbing tailor's shop - Moses Herzog Prop. Est. 1950 the sign said - and checked his appearance once more. Alex tightened his tie knot, nudged it a tad closer into the collar and smiled: the small east european looking man who sat cross legged in the window smiled back and gave him a small nod of acknowledgement - maybe even, he thought, of approval. Alex smiled broadly and stepped on.

Charlie sat. Pages from the notepad surrounded him. His eyes were closed. He was on the rug, unknowingly echoing Alex's old tailor. He brought his fingers together into a steeple before his chest and every last wrinkle dropped from his world weary face. Charlie beamed.


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