Short Stories to Entertain

A Monday afternoon in ‘66 was when I discovered the meaning of what I  actually liked  to do. I remember the day well. Just one lecture that day so college ended early. Early enough for me to head to the driving range and collect a few buckets of balls before I headed home. You see, the range was new and had no collection tractor so for ten minutes every hour the bays closed for ball pick-up. Then the sprint began, something I had well and truly sussed. In ten  minutes,  I could collect six buckets. Do that twic e and  I’d  earn a crisp  one-pound  note. Brilliant for only twenty minute’s work.

Monday morning and it is sunny but cool. Delany Quick exuberantly placed the empty cappuccino cup on the counter of the walk-in coffee shop, exaggeratedly but unnecessarily pushed his long black hair away from his face and looked the server firmly in the eye. His dark almost black eyes penetrated but at the same time displayed a humorous twinkle that softened what might have been a most disconcerting stare.    In reply to her question, he said firmly with a sudden, jaunty smile, “ W hat I do madam is sell magic. Delaney Quick at your service. Purveyor of fine magic sparks.”

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From the position of my  motorbike,  I could see down the street opposite the junction. The queue now stretched way down, a long distance past the church where a buzzing throng of new hats, best suits and shiny shoes had assembled in anticipation. Standing in a huddle in front of the lychgate I could make out four guys wearing the same outfits looking particularly stressed. One glanced right, along the line of stalled traffic. He could see  maybe one  hundred yards then a sharp bend shut out the chaos. Checking h is  watch,  he said something to one of the others who pulled out what I assumed was a phone.  

Even though the company had been boisterous the pub lacked any sort of empathy so after a couple of stiff ultra-dry martinis,  probably the  worst drink considering my problems, I slipped away with the intention of walking the couple of miles home. Craving the panacea of a few deep lungs full of salty ozone filled air I took the scenic route hoping the  great view  would lift my spirits.     Climbing the cliff path and struggling for breath I stopped to rest at the highest point on the slats of  Garath  Dobb’s bench. It had been a while since  I’d  taken this route so I had no idea who the guy was or anything about  him  but I did notice the absence of  Verdigris  on the copper plaque screwed onto the pristine varnish of the back support.    Maybe a  hundred yards offshore the silhouette of the car ferry slowly ploughed through flat waters, barely visible with the sun a mere lighter outline hanging low ...

For someone close to me who I'm helping because they're struggling with health and life.   A good old tool is strong and true   Honed and polished   Nurtured and loved   A good old tool is the sort to have   A good old tool     A good old tool is better than new   Balanced and reliable   Honest and dependable   A good old tool will not let you down   A good old tool     A dull old tool is tired and worn   Blunt and blemished   Abused and neglected   A dull old tool will rust and fail you   A dull old tool     A dull old tool doesn't need replacement   Polish it, sharpen it   Love and cherish it   A dull old tool with the proper care    Is  a good old tool