Mulled Vine

The great human domino experiment got more media attention than Simon Henslop had anticipated, and not surprisingly, for a 6 mile long snake of naked humans stretching all the way from Buckingham Palace, through the royal gardens to Piccadilly was quite a sight. Why, even the cranks and generally opinionate had left their soap boxes to watch the spectacle, and being a fine day, an unusual thing in itself in England, the crowds were out in droves, while an enterprising Sun reporter handed out cards to promising buxom lasses in the line, offering Page 3 spreads.

Noon came and Simon Henslop stepped up – amidst amidst a flurry of flashes and smiling at the crowds – to the first person in line, a tall, rather enviably well-endowed man with a broad, barrel chest, and pushed him over. The man fell backwards, knocking over the middle-aged woman behind him, who in turn fell backwards, and thus was started the Great Human Domino Experiment: one by one, ten by ten, hundred by hundred, until a seamless snake of falling humans wove its way along history … at least until suddenly it stopped.

The crowds gasped – there was a broken link – while Simon Henslop stood, stunned, unable to speak, to grasp the end of his dream.

A hairy little naked fellow tapped him on the shoulder, “I say, Mister Henslop, sir, I’m terribly sorry, it was my fault, but I was desperate for a pee. Any chance we could start again?”

The autumn leaves raced ahead of the icy breeze, jostling for position like noisy children, swirling around my feet before skipping on in joyful exhuberance. I stood alone on Southwark bridge – disturbed only by the occasional scurrying commuter – dreamily watching the murky waters of the Thames flow by, while nearby a boat advertised Exciting Day Cruises, but now floated, groaning against its moorings, its solitary flagrope clinking mournfully against the railings.

My reverie was interrupted by a soft, plaintive, “Hello?” – I looked down to see a young man dangling from a bunjee rope, a few feet above the water – “Any chance you could help me?”

I stared at him for a minute, then shouted back, “Sure thing! Hang on!”

Smiling at my own joke I then proceeded to unhook the rope from its fixing on the bridge, and as I watched him fall into the water, spluttering some unrepeatable words, it occurred to me that these Londoners are a very strange lot indeed.

The whispering started this morning, first like a gentle breeze, a lover’s touch, but then louder and more insistent, until now finally they cried to me in a gale of incoherent imperitives. I staggered to the bathroom in search of pain relief, clutching my pounding head, but was stopped in my tracks by my reflection in the cabinet mirror: a pale, crumpled countenance, agony visible in every tensed furrow; but it was the eyes that caught my attention – wild with manic fire, they burned at me to yield. Yield, they cried, yield, screamed the voices, but I would not. I roared with all my might and closed my eyes, beating my hands against the mirror until the bloodied pieces lay shattered in the basin and on the parquet floor. Then I opened my eyes and he was gone, the voices were gone, first simmering sulkily in the background … but then quiet … quiet … quiet … blissful peace…

“Honey, are you ok? … Daddy?” interrupted the voices behind me … loudly … insistently.

I slowly picked up a shard from the basin, and turned, smiling.

He was called Oak because of his immense size and mighty branch-like arms that swayed in passionate symphony with his words. He was a farmer by day, a humble, quiet man known for his hard work and trustworthiness, but by night he was a mighty man of God, the thunderous prophet voice of an ancient warrior God beating down from a fragile pulpit on a stunned congregation.

(Variant of a passage out of “Far From The Madding Crowd”)

Aaron Leibowitz gazed dreamily at the rolling waves crashing endlessly like a nagging wife on uncaring rocks, battle after battle only briefly interluded by the sea’s sulky withdrawal. He liked this place: desolate and alone, it was unfrequented by all except that occasional startled cormorant, and he came here to escape, to think. He sat hunched over, braced against the icy wind, drawing his knees together below a great white beard, his deeply creviced face crumpled in contemplation around two intelligent eyes that shone like forgotten pools of youth in an ageing desert.

“Here’s fine,” spoke a commanding female voice. I looked up from my book, slightly irritated at the interruption. The speaker was a smartly dressed woman of certain years, leading what was presumably her husband in tow. They sat down opposite me and I moved some of my things from the table between us, exchanging polite smiles with the man who, despite being immaculately suited in tweed and Savile Row tie had a crumpled look about him that contrasted starkly with her fine, stiff lines.

The man breathed out with obvious relief and turned to the woman, “That was close! I’m glad we caught the train. It’s too chilly to be standing long on the platform.”

She looked at him scornfully, “Of course we caught the train, Henry – didn’t I keep on telling you to hurry up?”

“Yes, Maureen,” he replied, “I was just saying…”

But she was no longer listening, having found something of greater interest in her handbag to attend to. He shrugged and looked out the window as the train pulled slowly out of the station, past misty green, hedge-rowed fields dotted with dopey-eyed sheep.

I was about to return to my book when a shrill ring pierced the air, causing a number of train occupants including myself to jump. The woman took out a sleek black mobile phone from her bag and answered briskly. “Hello?”

A thin, metallic voice spoke rapidly on the phone.

“Tony, stop!” she interrupted. “I don’t want to hear excuses. I need the presentation ready for Monday … What? … I see … Well look, if you want to see to your daughter’s birthday party, then I will find someone else to do this, someone I can rely on … What’s that? … Ok, good. I knew I could count on you. Just buy her something nice to make up for it – you can expense it … Good-bye.”

She clapped the phone shut and put it back in her bag, smiling with evident satisfaction. The man looked at her with raised eyebrows, but she glared coldly back at him. “One of us has to work!”

“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” he replied sulkily.

“Obviously not hard enough,” she harrumphed loudly, oblivious to or perhaps uncaring of the several onlookers. “I think you enjoy the easy life too much; David was made redundant last year and landed another top job within 3 weeks.”

He looked away, shaking his head sadly, a wealth of unspoken hurt in his eyes. “Some wedding anniversary this is turning out to be.”

She did not answer and they remained silent for the remainder of the journey.

I didn’t feel like reading any more.

“One Hundred Unique Flavours!” was their prized slogan and they had argued long and passionately about introducing one more, but finally they had agreed. Henry however, complained about how few of the choices he had contributed to, and said he was insisting this time – he wanted “Beijing Surprise”, a delicate blend of vanilla, marshmallow and Bhut Jolokia Pepper – the hottest chili in the world, guaranteed to blow your mind. She just shook her head and smiled calmly, being used to her husband’s tantrums, and hit him over the head with a metal ice cream bucket. He crumpled slowly to the ground, gasping for futile air, his eyes filling with pain as he stared incredulously at her.

The next day the new flavour hit the stand: “Bloody Men” and it was a roaring success, as she had known it would be.

“Hello, Sweetie!” said Keesha as she hugged her friend enthusiastically. “Long time no see! Life has been such a complete hullaballoo, you wouldn’t believe it! I have so much to tell you. What’s it been? 2 months? I can’t remember. We did see each other at Andy’s 21st, didn’t we?”

Jen nodded and smiled to herself. She was used to Keesha’s whirlwind entrances.

“So,” continued Keesha, pausing for breath. “What are you drinking?”

“Martini,” replied Jen.

“Hmm! Sounds delish. I think I’ll have one too…. Yooohooo!! Bartender! 2 Martinis, extra olives.”

“No olives for me,” protested Jen.

“Bosh!” said Keesha. “You can’t have Martini without olives!”

The drinks arrived and a moment’s peace prevailed while Keesha took a long, deep sip.

“That is really good,” she sighed. Then she turned to her friend. “So, news! You will never guess what I have bought for myself!”

“Shoes?” replied Jen.

“No, better than shoes. A puppy!”

“That’s nice”, said Jen, staring vacantly at her drink.

“Nice!?” exclaimed Keesha. “What’s up with you then? I said PUPPY. Hello??? You know I’ve always wanted a dog. “ Then she paused, feeling slightly hurt. “I thought you would be excited for me?”

Jen reached over and squeezed her hand. “Sorry. I am Keesha, really. Just got a lot on my mind.”

Keesha looked intently at her friend. “Well?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Keesha lifted up her left arm, flicking her fingers loudly and shouted. “Bartender! Two more Martinis. Better run a tab!” Then turning to her friend, “Come on. Let’s have it.”

Jen stared at her drink, tears beginning to flow down her cheeks. “David broke up with me”, she said. “It was almost our 3rd year together … we were going to go away for the weekend … I was sure he was going to propose.” Then she broke down, sobbing deeply.

Keesha’s jaw dropped. “Oh, no… Jen. I’m so sorry. You poor thing.” She flung her arms around her friend’s neck and kissed her. “Me and my big mouth, jabber, jabber, jabber, and here you are hurting!”

I smelled the meal long before it arrived, such was my anticipation: young lamb slow roasted to perfection, stuffed with gilded garlic cloves and garnished with sprigs of tender green rosemary, fresh from the herb garden I could smell on sunny days from my window. I lifted the cold, metallic plate cover and to my delight discovered, along with the soft roast potatoes encased in gorgeous crunch, a medley of fresh, steaming carrots, tender leaks and sweet petit pois. To the side perched a modest glass of chilled white Chardonnay dripping with icy condensation, and a little bowl in which a finely moulded crème caramel still wobbled with thrilling anticipation amidst a sea of bitter-sweet syrup, promising the perfect end to the perfect meal.

I sat quietly while I slowly ate the wonderful repast, pausing to savour every delicious morsel in my mouth before swallowing it ever so gently, so as to not ruin the sublime moment. It seemed even the birds and the sea stopped their incessant noise out of respect for perfection.

One might be forgiven for thinking the room was a tawdry boudoir, so lurid were its dark pink walls. However the large black poster on the wall gave it away: “Come into my lair” threatened a smirking cartoon monster with twinkling eyes, “We have cookies!” The room was tiny, with scarcely any room to swing a fish, never mind a cat. A practical, white single bed filled one side, its compact built-in drawers overflowing with clothing, while opposite a small cupboard formed an alcove for a minute desk which was bedecked with homework books, scraps of paper covered with colourful doodles, a broken MP3 player and a half eaten biscuit. The tiny paper bin beneath the desk spilled its contents onto the unseen green carpet: a paper rubbish trail that morphed seamlessly into heaps of shed clothing. A large white, wooden-framed window completed the scene, opening generously onto a view of the Kent Weald valley below, lush with green, hedge-rowed fields, occasional trees and dopey-eyed sheep.

The pink duvet stirred and a little tousled head emerged sleepily from an orderly dream world.