On her flight back from Israel, the girl’s trunk full of letters was accidentally dropped from the cargo hold of the aircraft. She was most annoyed, having been charged an excess fare on account of its weight. The outpourings of eight years were discharged across Europe, like unseasonable snow.
As her prayers fell to earth, the girl was planning her approach to Adrian. She had arranged to meet their mutual friend in a bar, and meant to sidle up to him and offer him a drink.
While she was at it, she might as well get the round in.
September 3, 2004
Chapter X: The Great Thirst
[Author’s note: I’m not going to have time to do cocktails until after six, so if someone else feels like serving, go ahead; otherwise just help yourselves.]
An Aside From The Story.
As eminently handsome Doctor Pockless strolled across the Chain Bridge with his morning paper tucked briskly under his arm he caught sight of what he at first mistook for a large white butterfly, flecked with blue, descending from an impossible height towards him. Hurrying forwards to seize the specimen he discovered that it was in fact an eight stanza poem, wherein the first stanza was a perfect sonnet and each subsequent stanza was approximately halved.
Excited by the chance discovery, he retired to a bar and putting aside his paper, he started to read the verse. It was an extraordinarily passionate ode to a gentleman by the name of Adrian, shot through with Eastern mysticism and a charming brand of obsession written in the hand of an anonymous poetess.
The waitress had been standing beside him with her tray for some time before he noticed her. Looking up from the poem, which he now realised was in fact a love letter, he barely managed to order. Unexpectedly, his voice, ordinarily distinguished by its ringing bass, such as might be heard from an elderly stage actor, was choked with unbidden grief.
“Mine’s a pint,” he said.
I’m going to be travelling all afternoon, and as such won’t have time to add any more to the consequences.
Anyway, in light of travel by train, can I have a quadruple Virgin Vodka topped up with Virgin Coke?
Thanks.
As the eminently shaggable Mike Troubled-Diva thrusted purposefully through the leafy crescents of his Exclusive Residential Estate, scarcely able to contain his excitement at the challenges of the working day which lay ahead, he caught sight of what appeared to be an intricately folded paper condor, swerving and swooping its way above him.
Eagerly, greedily, Mike snatched at the air above him, darting this way and that, until the exquisite origami creation eventually fell into his grasp.
Upon closer inspection, the paper surface of the condor turned out to be constructed from multiple sheets of lined Basildon Bond, hued in vibrant tones of duck-egg blue. As Mike dismantled the construction, he saw that each sheet of writing paper was covered in a minute, spidery script.
Leaning closer, Mike squinted over the top of his spectacles, intent on divining some sort of meaning from the near-illegible scrawl. Slowly, the words began to take shape.
“Christ on a bike!”, Mike exclaimed, crossly. “These are nothing more than the demented wibblings of some obsessive bunny boiler, aimed at some poor bloke who she met on holiday eight years ago. I might as well chuck this crap straight in the bin.”
“Hang on a minute, though. I bet that the lads at the office could have a bloody good laugh over this, if I show it to them in the pub after work this evening. Because there’s nowt so funny as a needy cow, is there? There’ll be a pint or two in this for me somewhere, that’s for sure.”
With these happy thoughts now uppermost in his mind, Mike stuffed the letters into his satchel and continued on his way. Only a few hours to go until his delicious pint of… what would it be? Yes, of course: Timothy Taylor’s Landlord.
Gert stumbled out of bed at ten thirty, and spent two hours surfing tabloids and blogs, and exchanging barbs on Usenet. As she walked to the kitchen to refill the coffee mug once again – a Mars mug, that came ‘free’ with an Easter Egg many years ago – she noticed the sun was shining. Tentatively, she stepped into the back garden. Lying there were pieces of paper. Clearly torn from a sensual notepad, smooth paper, no doubt having a bright neon orgasmic cover, and written in black ink from a fine fountain pen.
She briefly perused the words, but they meant nothing to her. She started trembling. She looked at her watch. America is waking up – there may be new posts on rmo or rmc. I must get indoors.
But I do fancy a pint or 65 of Spitfire.
Have to stay semi-sober, as Cat3 is being delivered tonight and there’s gonna be skin and fur flying in all directions when it meets the other two for the first time.
She’s going to be called Gary.
Oh go on, then – just a small Smirnoff Blue.
The last thing ClearBlueSkies Dave could remember was walking down the road in the direction of the station. There was a cry of ‘Look out!’ or ‘Watch it!’ or something and then everything went black.
He had come to in a casualty cubicle, with double vision and a headache so fierce he thought his head had been split open. Barely suppressing a groan as a wave of pain crashed on the shores of his mind, he managed to attract the attentions of a nurse and ask her what had happened.
“You were hit. On the head, like,” said the nurse. “By a book.”
Taking pity on the confused look that spread across Dave’s face, she went on.
“Well, it was more of a manuscript, really. A whole load of letters and things all bound together with string. We’ve had a great time looking through them since you arrived.”
She smiled at Dave and, turning to go, hesitated and looked back at him.
“Here, your name’s not Adrian is it?”
Dave didn’t answer. He could feel the darkness descending once more. As he slipped into unconsciousness, his last thought was “I need a beer”.
Please.
Adrian had dragged along his good mate Dan as a wingman. “I’m meeting this girl for the first time since I wrote her that letter.” he said. I wondered briefly if he was following the story as well as perhaps he should.
“I need you there for moral support.” He said, his face moving in slow motion. “Oh, and to make me look good.”
“But….I’m gorgeous. And you’re a hidi-beast.”
“Then we’ll have to even the odds a little,” he said, whipping out his trusty pocket knife with an evil grin usually reserved for English villains in American films.
“Order me a whiskey and….”
But my request for a mixer was drowned out by my screams as Adrian began his amateur facial surgery.