49 - Psychodelic Dancing

  “Come on, let’s go.” She said standing up. Unconcerned her low-cut top was undone to her navel, blue silky bra and white flesh hanging out. Her warm, soft hand small in his great big mitt, the slight squeeze encouraging, the sudden determined tug betraying an overpowering need. Kissing, proper kissing. They had been kissing and fondling in the dark corner. Behind the door. Chaos all around. Hectic. The noise. The thumping base-up beat. The toxic smell of enjoyment. Rick is knocked back surprised how sharp the edge of a door could be as it slammed against his head. That was Jimbo coming in, with exuberance, the usual flamboyant entrance. The big, “ I’ve arrived ” and late as usual. Wearing his trademark wrap around shades. Looking cool, well at least he thought so. But most importantly, so did the girls. Suzie, impatient, pulled again, “ Come on Rick... nowww Rick.” Into the hall passing Jimbo, Rick says, “Hi Jimbo thanks for the lump.” Jimbo replies with a slur, “Nice to

48 - The Viscosity of Custard

                                                                             The swing door, the sort that pivots on one side, swung easily open when Stanley Holloway gave it a small shove and he walked straight in out of the rain. He took a table by the window overlooking the street and hung his overcoat over the back of a classic utility chair where it spread out over the floor and dripped. Then sat down looking around the tables at all those people creating that everyday cafe din, that sort of echoey row full of clattering plates and rattling cutlery and overlapping conversations creating a wall of murmuring sound. The waitress, tall and maybe in her mid-thirties, with that almost wavy but not quite wavy blond hair, sort of ambled over, chewing gum and holding a worn out note pad with all the edges curled up like they do when pulled in and out of a pocket all the time. It sort of matched her own worn out expression. She smiled one of those fake, tired smiles showing her front te

47 - The Grand Old Master of Gloucester

  Donald Dunkerson, known within his tight circle as The Grand Old Master, resembled how you might imagine Doctor Foster might look, perhaps after the huge bunch of miles and many days or even weeks it took him to finally achieve one of the most rain drenched and futile journeys of all time. And incidentally Donald lived in Gloucester and is, or at least had been, a doctor which eminently qualified him to recognise that being drenched at one in the morning could adversely affect someone approaching their ninetieth birthday. It is easy to assume that his saturated condition was due to some fairly tedious and persistent rainfall but that is not the case - the three firemen who extracted him from the well can attest to that.   Donald or Don as his neighbours called him or simply Dunkers as he was known all those years ago at boarding school where he learnt, more than anything else, to vigorously defend food, probably represented one of the last products of a bygone age. The Exeats

46 - It's All in the Eyes

  Rita was sitting on her old decrepit bench with its peeling varnish and crusty, rusted legs and weather beaten, like it had been stuck underwater for ever. She was sitting on her bench in her front garden where the evening sun was. That’s why it was there, to be in the evening sun - t he heat warmed her bones and creaking joints. The girl was approaching. She was maybe thirty, long, pale yellow dress kind of floating about in the breeze and that wavy, fly-away type of blond hair. Wobbly looking six inch, blue patent leather stilettos click, clickety clacking on the pavement slabs as she kind of skipped along , swinging her matching bright blue shiny handbag and swaggering a bit with a confident walk, like she was on top of the world or something. Then the girl was stopped near Rita, by Rita’s old rusty gate and Rita said, “hi there, I’m Rita. Saw you move in yesterday.” “Why hi to you as well,” All full of exuberance, like a pumped up comedian. Patsey Red lips and smile-tal

45 - Wet Fish and Sunshine

  As the noise levels increased and the tension mounted a small gasp penetrated the darkness, a sharp intake of breath drawn through pursed lips, the sort that momentarily makes your front teeth cold, higher pitched, a bit like the sudden, short blast as the fly spray can releases a fraction of its pressure with such deadly effect. She was frightened, that much was obvious so he put his left arm around her and pulled her close and turned his head and whispered in her ear, “don’t be scared.” A soothing voice or so he thought. He hoped. She snuggled in close, so he kissed her cheek. A light kiss, his lips just fractionally brushing her skin. A fleeting but tender moment. Reassuring. She was warm against him and he held her tightly not wanting her to be scared. The darkness could be disconcerting. He knew that. Exaggerating the senses. He understood all about the darkness, how scary it could make things appear. He lived on an unlit road with tall, dark trees and high hedges lining the