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

Friday, December 15, 2006

Kitchen Confidential

"Charles! ... ... ... Charles!" Charlie looked round, his right hand on top of the fridge door, his body lit by the interior light. Past cheese and yoghurt, butter and salami, the bright light shone out and lit almost half of the immaculate kitchen. Charlie leant down and pulled an Amstel from the door compartment. "Charles! ... yes you - I'm talking to you". Charlie looked all around the kitchen - totally nonplussed.

"Where the fuck are you and who the fuck are you?".
"I'm all around you - you can't see me - I'm not there in that sense but I am here."
"So who the fuck are you? God or some such?" he sneered. "If I can't see you you don't exist, now sling your bleeding hook, I'm just grabbing a beer and then I'm off back to bed."
"C'mon Charlie you know me - you know who I am - think about it!"
"No I don't , now fuck off, and leave me alone ... I'm harming nobody and I'd really appreciate some kip."
"I'm the writer you fuckwit."
"Jesus ...... you pick your times don't you? Here I am, standing in a gorgeous bird's kitchen stark bollock naked in some strange flat and you decide to drop in - so to speak - for a cosy chat. Anyway what do you want? Aren't you supposed to keep out of the way? Or use the authorial voice or something? I'm pretty sure you aren't supposed to turn up in person - not here in the text anyway. Look - if you want a chat why don't you just wait until I get home? Why bother me here?"
"Charlie, Charlie, tsk, tsk, you've not been keeping up with post modern literary theory. Overt interaction between the author and his characters is perfectly acceptable these days. Where have you been? Living in a box?"
"How the hell do I know where I've been - that's your responsibility isn't it? Giving me a backstory? I only read detective fiction and I don't think your postmodern shit goes there. OK when I'm off page I might read some contemporary literature but you can't use that here - can you? Look ...... why don't you come back some other time and we can talk about it - not now huh? I was hoping for some more nookie before morning and frankly you're cramping my style not a little. And if you're doing this you can't be writing my sexual reprise can you? Go on - sod off and let me get my leg over huh? What d'you say - play the white man."
"But I need to talk to you now. I need to know about the meeting at Sonia's flat. Who wrote that?"
"OK, OK, I see where you're coming from but if I just refuse to co-operate - and I do - there's not a lot we can do is there - this text just stalls doesn't it? So I'll see you back at the flat tomorrow. I'll tell you all about it then but now ... no! So scram!"

Charlie closed the fridge door plunging the room into darkenss, opened the Amstel at the counter and slugged it back in one. He headed back to the bedroom.



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