The end of October

And so dear readers, Mister October did sit at another table.

The most wonderful grandmother dealt him a Royal Flush.

You can't beat a Royal Flush.

Mister October walked away from the tables a contented and happy man.

Possibly see you in November. Possibly!

The birth of Mister October

To my eternal shame at the age when I should expect 50% of the queen’s telegraph I met someone quite decent. While it was only short lived it did lead to the creation of Mister October.

I must admit I had developed a pretty decent handle on things, even the chaos that pursued my life, and that I think was what the lady found attractive. In a strange way I’m not so sure this was what I displayed to her. A child in a sweet shop may have done better.

She was a single mother with two girls who were in the process of trying to find their own identity. Like the whirlwind I can be I gave her what she wanted. I moved into her life, house and bed.

By way of thanks her oldest daughter nicknamed me Mister October.

Given it was the first of this month she reckoned with her mother’s track record that was about as long as I would last. It was about as long as any of her relationships lasted. I made it through to January. Not sure if all she really wanted was Santa Claus or a puppy for Christmas, either way she got both. Problem with puppies is they quickly grow, and by January 23rd the dog had gotten considerably larger and needed to be put down.

Unsure why so quick demise should have happened I retreated to Luxor, Egypt. At times I thought about trying and find a spare tomb to bury myself in. Not easy licking your wounds when your bollocks have been cut off. You tend to find you bleed profusely.

They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Screw that for wisdom. I did however revisit the part I played in my own life.

Had I overplayed my hand and lost the pot?

No, the truth is a lot simpler than that. We just weren’t right for each other.

When it comes to cards I’m really not very good at poker. I did learn one thing though. If I keep my hand closer to my chest and only deal when the time is right I can improve in the game, and maybe, just maybe one day actually win a trick or two.

Yes, I learned a lot from this particular lady. She had her own trouble to sift through. I hope she does. I may be a bad gambler but I’m improving. The whole episode wouldn’t stop me sitting at the next table and hoping next time to at least break even.

Getting back to the furniture (sorry future!)

The intrepid duo of Bill and Ben can never be far from your mind once you’ve opened up to their memory. Considering this was a hospital where gainful employment should have been taking place the potential for endless fun was not lost on this pair of jokers.

As a maintenance plumber Ben had ‘access all areas’ this included the hallowed ground of the nurse’s home. For the uninitiated a nurse’s home was a kind of NHS brothel. Not all the girls were of easy virtue I may add but where there is a congregation of young, willing and eager then it stands to reason some would be young, willing and eager. Many a gentleman caller would be smuggled past the sleeping security team. That after all is the job description of security guards the world over. They are employed primarily to sleep. Some of the more advanced types graduate to watching CCTV, or television by another name. In between sleep duties I may add.

Ben was not averse to helping himself to a couple of ladies under garments. The kind that had the double initialed store labels were not what this ‘panty’ thief was after. He only took the more evocative and provocative samples for his collection.

At this point you could be forgiven for thinking Ben was no more than a kinky old pervert. This could not have been further from the blind lady with the scales of justice. What Ben had in mind was depositing his ‘finds’ in a kind of treasure hunt. The only problem was you had no idea you were involved. The hiding places were usually under the passenger seat of your car or when he was feeling bolder the glove compartment. Try explaining that one to the wife.

Luckily I at this point in my life did not have a wife. Neither did I have a car. I did have a sense of humor though. Glad to have met these two rogues. They make the sofa a little more comfortable of an evening.

I must do better

I have recently discovered a pain worse than broken limbs, and guess what I brought it all on myself. Thoughtless cretin that I am.

It's a delicious and sweet thrill to be romantically involved. It's also the worst pain possible when you mess up by your own hand.

Given the length of space I've wandered on this revolving rock you would have thought I had mastered the art of telling the truth. I have. Unfortunately with the male ego that surrounds my earthly presence I find it hard to admit my falability and the eventuality of fact only comes out in dribs and drabs. Painful indeed for the delicious lady asking the questions. I must seem like a real prat at times.

From my lofty peak the view is panoramic. But my overview is not from a position of mountainous ascent. No sir, it would be more reasonable to state what I survey is more likely to be from the cross I carry.

It would do me better to climb down and use the wood to start a fire. The blaze may even heat up the cavernous holes I seem to dig for myself and scare me into some appropriate action.

As a nutcase I'm the kernel extraordinaire. Pity really I never mean any harm in anything I do, but mastering life seems beyond my comprehension when matters of the heart take hold.

With this knowlegde and my recent experience I must try harder to gain the wisdom necessary to stop making a complete bollocks of myself.

As my old teacher used to say, 10,000 lines x 'I must do better'. Only stop writing when the pain gets unbearable. Now I know that the pain is truly unbearable.

One day I'll get it right. It's a promise I will keep if only to prove to myself that the rainbow and pots of gold are not just a dream.

The fresh faced Colleen

Around the age when three and zero sit comfortably together I was introduced to a lovely Irish girl .You know the sort. Keep you awake all night fulfilling fantasies then hit the confessional for her guilt trip. Not that any priest I’ve ever met really listens. If the press is to be believed the majority prefer hairy males to ‘hail Marys’.

She actually was pretty close to the male definition of womanly perfection. You know the script. Cook in the kitchen, lady in the drawing room, whore in the bedroom. Or even on a good day whore in the kitchen and drawing room as well.

She had the most delicious smile, and personality.

Given my background of white gloves, big drums and tin whistles I was taught that the followers of the man on the cross were not on the same spiritual level as those who did protest. And so I let religion get in the way. Not that I knew anything about religion you realize. All I knew was that Catholics were a strange breed and not to be trusted, except of course when they were pretty and opened their legs. Then they were to be whole heartedly encouraged.

I really was a young and stupid buck.

This fresh faced colleen tolerated my prejudice and behavioral deficiencies with a grace only the Virgin Mary herself could display. Without reservation she accepted the nonsense that I threw out as wisdom.

As ever the foolishness of youth got in the way and I beat it out of a fairly healthy situation. Truth is my conscience bothered me enough some years later to find her and tell her so. Even then she listened to what I had to say with a peace and serenity I did not understand.

Little did I know there would be more than one ‘graceful’ lady enter my life.

Later in life the 'white witch' came a calling and donned the mantle of serene womanhood.

As it stands the knuckles of reality are knocking on the door of celibacy and I know they must be answered. It feels stronger than the pull of a celestial black hole. Seems the innermost squirrel who hides his nuts may wish to delve further into the mysteries of lingerie tinged with domesticity.

For my sins I hope I will not burn at the stake.

As to the sofa the 'f' was delivered and now all is built and ready for launch.

Maybe the 'white witch' would like a test drive.

Oh, the musings of masculinity and egotistically folly.

No 'f' in sofa

I am no longer sofaless. Well almost.

Unfortunately with the typical thoroughness I have come to expect in life there are portions as yet to be fetched to me. So while now part of me can sit I cannot loll. If I accept this situation I will develop lopsided buttock syndrome. So where of an evening to place the gangling torso I inhabit I am still at a loss.

By way of explanation the 'third party' carrriers who delivered said incomplete article employed a driver with a 'third party' brain. The neandrethal impersonator who rode as shotgun had little more to display in terms of cerebral capacity. They doorstepped my future instrument of repose and informed me in true ok coral fashion that they would not be lifting the sofa any further than the roadside.

I informed them I did not live on the roadside. This was beyond their developed comprehension.

And so I had it, two slobbering skullnumbs who with finger pointing consistency referred to their interpretation of the semantics of a delivery ticket in order to not complete their task. The whole deal took a swift change of direction when I introduced a wireless transmission courtesy of Alexander Graham Bell and his forebearers. An irate Managing Director lined up on my side and the shotgun was unloaded.

Without much more exertion than a good squeeze I had four large boxes in which to play filling my living room. Before you could say Robin Jackson the knuckle draggers had their palms open for alms. A fixed stare for their efforts filled their 'sweaties'. I too can stand off with remarkable alacrity.

Alone with my boxes I unpacked with more zest than a ton of oranges.

And so the tale is yet to be comlete. One of the boxes was the wrong package. Threequarters of my sofa was all I had.

There is still no 'f' in sofa.

Keep you posted.

Bill and Ben

When yesteryear was just a word and the rat race had less rats I was privileged enough to have worked amongst some of the most prolific life givers that the world has ever produced.

No, they were not really all that special in terms of world changing events unless you realize of course that most folk’s worlds are very small indeed. They can still part my mandibles in the broadest sense when I think on what they got up to.

I will start with Bill and Ben.

This pair fed off each other and their surroundings in a way that Laurel and Hardy would have found difficult to emulate.

Ben was a plumber. With all the features that a working man manages to acquire by the time he is a journeyman. He owned over developed and knarled hands, a keen sense of the ridiculous, a razor sharp wit and an uncanny ability to find opportunity where little or none existed. He was also a mischief maker extraordinaire. Bill had been his apprentice, which says it all really.

They, like I worked in a hospital. These were the days when hospital smelled of carbolic, nurses looked angelic and porters were helpful. Not that this is not the case today, perhaps it just feels that way.

On one occasion Ben broke his finger and was off work for a couple of days. When an inquisitive nurse asked Bill where the other half of this double act was he proceeded to launch into this story.

According to Bill, Ben’s finger had gone septic. His arm had then become infected. Gangrene had set in. Said arm had been amputated.

The nurse bought the whole ridiculous story. So,Bill being a man of extreme fortitude pushed the boat out further.

He informed the nurse that unbeknown to most Ben was a keen concert pianist in his spare time and now there was no living with him. Given that we are talking of a man with fingers thicker than an oak sapling or two this was the most unlikely tale imaginable. Yet, in no time, the whole hospital was awash with grief at this poor man and his imaginary amputation. There was a collection, condolence card and everything. Quite an extreme amount of sheckels were raised.

Ben returned to work with a full compliment of limbs.

The staff were not amused.

As luck would have it Bill cried off from work sick on the very day of Bens return.

As the firewood was being collected for his pyre some bright spark decided to ask Ben how long he thought his compadre would be away from the workplace. Quick as a flash he retorted that as Bill had been suspended for his inveterate lying he had no idea.

This obviously was not the case; Bill simply had a head cold. Ben then related Bill’s true life story to all and sundry making out that anything he said was a tissue of lies. Needless to say when Bill got back on his feet the whole hospital had him branded.

I miss there two guys they brought a certain finesse to life. Nothing was that sacrosanct that tomfoolery couldn’t improve.

I know your up there, or down there, but wherever you are Ben have a laugh on me you were worth every minute of your time on this earth.