Chapter 19

Dail was in a cinema. By himself. Whilst this was rare, he had taken a leaf out of his sisters New Year Resolution manuscript and thought he'd give it a go. It was unusually refreshing; not worrying about which side of you your friends are on and not having to share your popcorn. For his viewing delectation today was an overpriced action-cum-drama piece. The kind that gets released at least bi-annually to appease those who need to see things blown up on a bigger screen than the one attached to their Xbox at home, but want a break from the deep seated guilt of knowing you've just killed your three thousandth faceless mutant enemy.

One thing about films had been striking Dail more and more in recent times; besides the decreasing existence of original ideas and the inverse correlation this had on the price of viewing. And the increasing propensity of rom-coms to alter peoples perspective of what a relationship actually was. Anyway, to return to the original striking, Dail had been realising that it was incredibly lucky that the film crew had decided to turn up for that particular time in the lives of whoever was involved. Rarely, if ever, was there a film in which the protagonist went about his daily business due to some logistical error that saw the viewer turn up too early. No storyline, no expensive climax on an oil rig, no sudden turning of plot in which everything seems to be going against the protagonist, things seem hopeless; but what's this?! Everything has turned out fine via the steely resolve of the lead character and the return of their sidekicks (who previously turned against them because of some altercation). And the bad guy is dead! Well that's spiffing isn't it. And not just films! Everything! Books too. There weren't any fictional books (to Dail's knowledge, at least; (auto)biographies didn't count) that were just about the downtime in a person's life. Just a small segment of nothing happening. Understandable enough, though. Probably wouldn't shift too many tickets or hardback copies to just read about someone sitting at home, eating biscuits, pottering about, seeing their friends and going to the toilet (not at the same time. Well, he conceded, it would depend very much on the nature of the friendships involved).

By now the film had finished and, with a tenacious unavoidability, the obligatory small segment of film that squats at the end of the credits, hinting at the inevitable franchise forming sequel, was  looming. The tiny subplot that was to be continued into the next four instalments was to be hinted at by the one henchman who had somehow survived. Such a shame that killing the big boss at the end wasn't the end of it. Oh well, more money for all the film people. Fake explosions and blank bullets didn't come cheap, damnit.

Dail eventually excavated himself from beneath the mounds of popcorn that had successfully re-enacted The Great Escape and, to pass the rest of the afternoon, walked home (this was not as impressive as it sounds - the cinema was only 10 minutes away and was more financially motivated than any half baked attempt at being a flâneur). Then, he once again set about thinking about The Book. A book with absolutely no plot whatsoever actually quite appealed to Dail's backward sensibilities; the idea that any snippet of any person's life could be transcribed into print without them being any the wiser. The birth of the fly-on-the-wall novel was beginning to take shape. Any idea of choosing a real person went out the window like am archaic rock star's hotel TV set. Stalking was not entirely to Dail's forte; nor were restraining orders or court cases particularly to his taste. No, he decided. If this were to take flight, it would have to be a fictitious character. Maybe not overly fictitious, though. If left to its own devices, Dail's mind would run amok and make the resultant text nigh unreadable. His attempt at writing a blog was proof enough of that. It would need something to help keep it grounded,  but the only life he was overtly knowledgeable of was his own and he had previously decided that nobody would care much to read about it in print. Perhaps a warped, slightly surreal adaptation. Wait, no. Making a warped, surreal version of something real to make sure it doesn't flit away into the ether of sense and sensibility is stupid. Not even the most crooked of bank managers would approve a loan for that plan. So a fictitious character loosely based on himself. How hard can that be? Just do something interesting.

The kind of stage fright/writers block hybrid that is usually the result of someone having said "Say something funny"  suddenly washed over Dail like a wall of warm air in a shop entrance in December. The only way to get out of it is to move away and do something different. To this end, a large amaretto was poured out and some reusable ice cubes utilised (to hell with watering down your own drink). A nice drink and putting your feet up was what would make Dail happy now.

The only thing worthy of Dail's precious pieds within easy reach was a hardback chair. And, naturally, the logical place to put your feet was atop the back piece, the result of which contorted him into a bizarre and slightly tipsy Tetris piece, as his back slid further and further down the armchair onto the seat pad and his feet slid further and further into the air and therefore more perpendicular to the floor. 

"Bugger. Not entirely sure how to get out of this one." It was at times like this that Dail wished that he had a roommate. Not to help him out of his current predicament, but to hold up a score card rating the elaborate series of twists, falls, rolls and flails that saw him end up off the chair and with his foot wedged under a bookshelf. He was fairly certain a good, solid seven was on the cards at least. The Olympics, however, were looking to be a far distant ambition at present.

That evening, a lot more amaretto was drunk and some writing actually got done. But, on reflection the next morning, it wasn't the kind of thing that could get published. Chiefly because what did get written was a page full of the entry code for Dail's phone, the words "penguin + talcum powder"  in large red letters in his diary one month in the future and a shopping list consisting of, rather cryptically, "penguin + talcum powder."

No explanation of the plan for these items was ever unearthed.

Chapter 18

The Sun had taken it's annual roulette challenge in London and, this year, had settled on one week at the tail end of March. To make the most of this, Dail was indulging in one of his secret pleasures; donning a pair of headphones, grabbing a book and a notebook, then spending his day off on the top step of Nelsons Column. Whenever someone informed him that they hadn't tried this, Dail was always supersonic in recommending it.

Trafalgar Square was a space seemingly designed with people watching fimly at the core of it's design brief. It was also the reason that he had brought a notebook with him (that and lest he be 'caught short', so to speak, when stricken with sudden book inspiration). He enjoyed noting the varying techniques that people (let's face it, 'tourists') employed in mounting the Trafalgar Square lions; a phrase which Dail acknowledged the bizarrity of to anyone not overly familiar with London landmarks. He eventually managed to compile the following compilation of complicated cavortings:

Solo Efforts

• The Run Up Most commonly attempted by bravadic men or tragically over enthusiastic children.
• One Foot On The Tail and followed by trying to swing the other leg up to gain leverage. Possible if you're an Olympic gymnast or contortionist.
• Two Feet On The Tail & two hands on the spine. Jump and lift. The mark of a sound, logical mind - though not always successful.
• Flank The Lion! Attempt to climb the hind legs. Poor planning. Sign of stupidity. Also includes shimmying round the side of the lion onto the pedestal. Most return once there, sensing futility.

Team Efforts

• The Friendly Bum Push Climber usually adopts one of the 'foot and tail' techniques and is then pushed up from beneath. Success depends on the strength of the pusher. Also, to some extent, the size of the bum and it's owner.
• Foot Lift Climber adopts the 'One Foot On The Tail' position. Pusher then cups hands and pushes climbers spare foot to lift. Important climber locks knees or at least helps push back.

It was also interesting to just watch the various poses for photos that people used; though this was not something constrained solely to Trafalgar Square and the column. Dail's personal favourite, clichéd though it was, being The Philosopher. As if the sight of the column had triggered some deep, internal, philosophical quandary within the poser. 

Choosing which side of the statue to sit on was also important to Dail. His preference was the West or East sides. The roar of traffic on one side and the splashing of the fountains on the other which, under perfect conditions, sent over a brilliant and buttock clenchingly refreshing mist.

Then there was the 'Pop Game'. Whilst this was possible anywhere, the crowds generated by this kind of weather made the conditions ideal for it's deployment. The premise was worryingly simple considering the return it gave: pick a person at random. Anyone. Next, imagine or actually make a 'Pop' noise. At that exact moment, visualise your marks head turning into something. Literally anything. One woman's head had turned into a baby from the neck down so that both the baby and woman had an upside-down body for a head. The woman then fell over and had her baby head run amok - dragging her ragdoll body about behind it. Other standards included beachballs, balloons and goldfish bowls (complete with fish). It was a bizarre statistic that most of the good ones began with a 'b'. The next level up, in terms of 'Pop Game' proficiency, was to be able to maintain each transformation and to keep track of each person. To this end it was often a good idea to initially select people who were in some way distinctive from the crowd; be it a brightly coloured t-shirt or wholly unusual hat. After a while you ended up with a crowd of tourists interspersed with people who had all manner of things in place of their heads. Most would just carry on their usual business as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. How little they knew, the fools.

So far, Dail had been in the square for about three hours; alternating between listening to music, listening to the square, and playing the pop game (as well as compiling his Encyclopaedia of Lion Scalers. He'd even got some drawing down, even if it was just a crude depiction of Nelsons Column with his exact location on the steps circled and marked "Happy Place". However, he suddenly realise that he also hadn't moved for three hours, which was significant for two reasons. Firstly, it meant that he hadn't actually eaten anything since breakfast seven hours ago and his stomach was doing its best to silently berate him of the subject. It was only a matter of time before its protests became verbal. Secondly, it meant that his bum was beginning to ache - as three hours spent nestled on hard stone is prone to doing to the untrained backside. And yet, he still wasn't moving. The Sun was still squatting over the rooftops and was due to make a strong return again tomorrow. But tomorrow was Thursday, a day which Dail had inconveniently scheduled in sitting in a dreary, overheated (it was still only march, after all, and the office thermostat was vigilantly narrow-minded) and thoroughly under windowed office. So there was no way in hell that some hunger or posterial discomfort was going to deprive Dail of at least one more hour of unprecedented sunshine. That and he had to still be there lest any of the friends he had text saying "In Trafalgar Square. Come chill out and have a chin-wag." actually replied. Of course, he has limited his pool of selected friends to receive this invitation to those who worked in central London and might be finishing soon. So far, however, nobody had bitten. And, thus, another waiting game commenced. So, to kill the time until hope of friends was abandoned and salvation finally came to both stomach and bum, Dail tracked the movements  of a man in a yellow t-shirt whose head he had metamorphosised into an oversized, but very green, roasted pistachio nut.

"Brilliant."  

Chapter 17

Think outside the box. Box. Computer. The internet. The internet lives inside the computer... the internet lives in...

Great Scott! Blogs! Writing a blog is like writing a book! "But," said the tiny voice in Dail's head that sounded unnervingly like Humphrey Bogart, "you know nothing of blogs." This is true. What is 'blog' even short for? Assuming it is short for something. It must be short for something. Blogging? That's the process of writing a blog you heathen. What little I do know is that it seems mandatory to write in a style that assumes the reader is avidly interested in what you have to say. In most cases, one would imagine, this is not the case. This is far from the case. Miles. This is the case being put on the wrong plane and sent to Sydney whilst you're on your way to Austria. Oh god, and that case had your camera and phone charger in it. And most of your pants! What demonic spark of inspiration made you pack pants and camera in the same case?! Was it to protect the camera...? Possibly. Ha. Protection. Hrmph. All roads on the internet lead to sex...

A blog about what though? Does a blog need a specific theme or motive? Mesinks it may be time to do some market research. Evaluate the competition, so to speak.

After 5 hours, Dail had completed three online games, watched a film and ordered the entire Sherlock Holmes anthology. He hoped to boost up his detective skills lest an errant villain who had a penchant for laying intellectual traps about the place move into his neighbourhood. Note to self, take up opium smoking and buy a deerstalker... Also acquire ex-military medic for side kick purposes and homo-erotic subtext. Likewise, commence retrospectively referring to past events as "The Case of..." etc etc. "Ah yes. The Case of the Mirrored Trumpet. I skilfully deduced that it was milk. The clue was in the consistency of his shaving. Messier on the left hand side of his face, meant there was a window to his right." Capital.

Dail finally decided to cut out the middle man of constructive thought and just start typing. The result didn't so much meander as mince without any hint of a perceptible bearing. Suffice to say, that the topics of deforestation, childbirth, the "proper" way to organise ones fridge (in accordance to Dail) and eight fun things to do with a sponge and a spatula were covered within the opening paragraph. Not even a long paragraph. Fifteen lines. Dail may have just discovered and perfected (in the eyes of only those with the grandest and/or feeblest clutching of the English language) the Linguistic Wormhole. Tiny holes in traditional planes of logic that, if approached from just the right angle, allowed you to make vast inter-topical leaps in a fraction of a sentence. And they're everywhere. Permeating everything. Talking about toast? Blam. In the wink of a heartbeat you're discussing sheep herding in New Zealand interspersed with art deco era decanters. What ho? A casual chin-wag betwixt acquaintances regarding a new pair of spats? You appear to be sorely mistaken my good chum, for presently we appear to be deep in discussion about the best way to order a latte in Naples. 

Lingual Physics and the inevitable Pulitzer-Nobel-Combo prize aside, Dail decided to let loose this opening salvo on 'the limits of human comprehension'. A few quick emails to friends to say "I've done a thing. Go and read it. Not in a 'I've just had Alphabet Pasta and my digestive system isn't breaking things down like it used to' way. I wrote a blog. Kind of. Enjoy!" and the waiting game began. Waiting, in this case, involved making tea, eating biscuits (with said tea) and endeavouring to perfect the long lost art of getting a bouncy ball into a cup; opting for plastic this time to avoid any nasty breakages. Then he reread what he had written. This, he discovered, was a mistake. Apparently, one of the rules of Lingual Physics was that once a Wormhole had been used, it ceased to exist. That is to say, what he had written only made sense at the time of writing. Whilst Buddhists who believed in living purely in the moment might appreciate this, most others wouldn't. And, as it turned out, didn't. The first critique he received denounced thusly: "Enlightening. You're lucky that I know you or I would probably try and get you sectioned." Most were of a similar artery. Curiously, one such reply said "I want to read more. I just don't know why." Posted by Anonymous. Gasps and zounds abound! A fan! This must be what it feels like to be a pop star. Dail took a nervous glimpse outside to assess his bushes (steady on) for any hidden paparazzi. Safe, but only for now. Note to self; keep a wary eye about yourself. Those Sherlock Holmes books are already paying for themselves.

Dare I write more so soon? Dail weighed up the pros and cons and eventually settled on sticking to the age old adage that less is more; and that more is what you should always leave them wanting. To this end, Dail vowed never to write a blog again. "If you build it, they will come" wasn't it? Well, famous quote, prepare for an overhaul. "If you don't write it, they will read it."

 Take that, Shakespeare. 

Chapter 16

It was that time again. Not the kind that you view with suspicion; like when you haven’t checked your digital clock for ages and yet every evening when you do it somehow manages to be 22:22 and you point and shout “Look at the time! It’s doing it again!”, whilst everyone else rolls their eyes and dreams of a quieter time. A time of greater simplicity. A time when twenty-two minutes past ten was completely inauspicious. Just a seemingly random allocation of big and small hands that held little or no meaning at all beyond ‘It’s not quite twenty-five past yet’. No, it wasn’t one of those times. It was more like one of those times where you’re part of two, separate friendship trio’s that merges for a merry day of relaxing mirth. In this happy instance, it was the case that Dail and Robin (a man friend of Dail’s) sometimes hung out with Kara (a lady friend of Dail and Robin’s). At other times, they also hung out with Caroll (another lady friend of Dail and Robin’s). But on this day of days (a Saturday to be quite obsessive about it), they were all together, watching a movie at Kara’s house.

The movie wasn’t even out in cinemas yet, but Kara was doing some baby-sitting for some neighbours who happened to be directors and may have had some Bafta nomination DVD’s that they weren’t beyond lending out. Delirious amounts of tea had been sipped, many choice words had been uttered as tongues were burnt, movies had come and gone and eventually chatting had re-emerged from its movie-length snooze and started prancing around the room like a particularly theatrical deer.

As usual, questions of why Dail’s book still hadn’t stumbled out of its bedsit, yawning and blinking in the cold, harsh daylight, were trained at the would be author.

“I’ll have you know,” Dail proclaimed “that I have in fact written something.”

“Sweet monkey Christ!” announced Robin. “S’about time, isn’t it?”

“That it is. It’s a poem and it is titled ‘One Man And His Log’.”

Worried glances passed between Kara and Caroll, who sensed that some fairly childish verse was hyperactively bounding towards them; outstretched hands sticky from sweets whilst its mud covered face drooled like a frog-spawn on the edge of a chair.

“I actually wrote it on the way over here…” Dail admitted whilst pulling a weather beaten notebook out of his bag. After a fairly disgusting clearing of the throat, he began to read. Out loud of course, or the phlegm relocation scheme would have been entirely uncalled for:

A man did drive down the motorway

He had been gone 3 years and a day

When a sudden ache did grow inside

His mouth did drop, his eyes grew wide

He pulled over to the side of the road

Into a forest, he quickly stowed

In his bowels, anarchy

Soon to be, misery

Sprayed all over the nearby trees

A shaky feeling controlled his knees

Exhausted from this dramatic feat

The man did ponder, “What did I EAT?!”

He looked around for something with which to wipe

But in the confusion, in the hype

He grabbed the nearest thing to him

Onwards and upwards, and the finger therein

Suddenly, a burning sensation did grip his arse

And the thought then came to him at last

Shock, horror, disbelief…

He’d wiped with poison ivy leaf

Trousers round ankles through the woods he ran

A horrific sight, for he was a man

Reddened now, was his rump

With trousers round ankles, he could not jump

Over the tree root that lay in his path

He was feeling the poison ivy’s wrath

Down a hill, half naked he fell

All the time his buttocks did swell

He landed in a babbling brook

And opened his eyes just in time to look

At the many small children lined up on the bank

On a school trip they were, wrecked, to be frank

A lift back home, he caught on their bus

The boils on his arse started spouting puss

Homeward bound, did swiftly go

To a tube of cream, and some hot coco

The cream supplied a soothing sensation

Whilst on TV he watched a demonstration

On the steps to take if stung by ivy

Is anyone else here sensing the irony?

“Are you proud of that?” asked Caroll eventually, a look on her face like she’d just opened a fridge with something highly questionable at the back of it.

“Not particularly. Just needed to kill some time on the tube.”

“Well I think you’ve managed to kill it fairly successfully. I’m informing the police of it immediately. ”

“What happened to his car?”, this from Kara, with her degree in English.

“Kara, you have a degree in English. Surely there is more in that poem to offend you than a minor wormhole in the plot?” Dail knew that the poem he had written was rubbish; immature even. But he maintained that letting that side of you out in writing was much more harmless than, say, going into a crowded playground and forcing yourself onto the roundabout before realizing that you get severely bad motion sickness and ruining the seesaw for everyone.  

“I know but…did he, like, go back and pick it up afterwards?” Kara asked hopefully.

“Yes. He did. They all lived happily ever after. Apart from some arthritis when he got older. But hey, that’s life. You get older, things start falling to bits…you know how it is.”

“Sarcasm. Nice!” expulated (again, not a word but should be) Robin. What followed was the kind of high-five that can only ever occur between two fully-grown males that spend far too much time together. Once they’d returned from the kitchen with ice to numb the pain in their hands and more tea for everyone, they found Caroll deep in conversation with Kara about the intricacies of the poem that had essentially just poked them in the ears with a toy dinosaur whilst they themselves poked the weather beaten book at the heart of the debate. So, giving the empty sofa something to do, regaled past glories and tried to conjure up a means to create some new ones in the near future.

 “I still have a mark there, you know.” Dail said in a hushed, ashamed tone.

“Well you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Hardly. It was nothing but bravery. We won, didn’t we?”

They had gone paintballing some months previously, before anyone’s imagination starts working too hard.

Chapter 15

It was turning into a slow kind of day. Rather than getting anything productive done, Dail had taken to wandering around the house, making pit stops at the fridge, staring at it blankly, mouth slightly agape, wondering why nothing new had appeared to take his interest since his last visit, staring blankly at the same websites over and over again, mouth slightly agape, wondering why nothing new had appeared to take his interest since his last visit…there was a formula for disappointment that was rarely deviated from on days like this.

Of course, the reason for this total lack of productivity was The Sun. It felt like it was nervously sidling up to The Earth on a sofa at a party, too scared to actually do anything except maybe ‘accidentally’ brush The Earth’s leg whilst reaching for its Bacardi Breezer. Of course, The Earth liked The Sun back, but neither could actually do anything for fear of rejection, which everyone would talk about in school the next day and it would all be rather uncomfortable and humiliating. All this closeness was doing was making The Earth very hot and bothered. So because of some stupid, metaphorical, teenage crush, Dail was feeling very listless, drained of energy and not much like he wanted to write anything, even though he’d set this entire weekend aside for solid writing (having discovered that nearly all his friends were in other cities, and the few who remained were the kind of friends who you liked perfectly well…but didn’t feel quite comfortable around enough to spend alone time with; the kind that requires your other friends to be there as a get out plan should it all go a bit arses-sideways). So far, he’d managed to conceptualise a vaguely bizarre graphic novel about a zombie Hitler who rode a cyborg velociraptor…during The Renaissance. This was later to be dismissed for fear of unsettling the more violent history buffs.

Dail knew the heat was draining him of his energy, and this annoyed him as there was very little he could realistically do about it; like hearing a burglar in your house whilst you’re in The Bath. All you can really do for the meantime is remain in The Bath and hope you still have some clothes left to change into later. Preferably some clean ones. The Sun wasn’t going to steal his pants…was it? It might do, but it would be a cruel and vindictive move should it happen, because Dail was fairly certain that, for a start, his pants wouldn’t fit The Sun, and anyway… The Sun is still hung up on The Earth, so it would be a move of heartless infidelity as well as cruel and vindictive.

Dail then pretended to be a spy for a short while. This, however, was a fairly short lived endeavour as he failed the entry exam. During the follow-up meeting, the exact reasons for his failure to become a world renowned spy (the point of which seemed like a bit of a contradiction to Dail; surely the point of a spy was being completely unknown…) were outlined in crystal clear Dolby surround.

“To be a spy you have to think outside the box.”

“But I tried!”

“You remember that form you had to fill out?”

“Yes.”

“The question that said ‘Do you want to be a spy?’”

“Yes.”

“Did you draw a tick in the ‘Yes’ box?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t. Tick outside the box.”

“Bugger.”

Having failed at international espionage, he made a desperate bid to escape the relentless heat of The Sun by having, after much careful deliberation, a cool Bath. Normally, this would have been an easy decision to make – fill Bath with cool water, read book for a while, feel refreshed. But lately, there had been ominous events going on around The Bath. Lately and, somewhat depressingly, Dail’s showerhead had become suicidal.

 

Now, Dail didn’t believe in souls, but he frequently personified objects and it was his earnest belief that his showerhead was either making a wanton attempt to end its career as deputy water dispenser to The Bath, or (and Dail believed this to be far more likely) it had a deep and severe loathing of books. With increasing regularity, when there was reading occurring in The Bath, the showerhead would somehow manage to dislodge itself and make the terrifying three foot leap into the water below; sending a monsoon of sudsy water towards whatever absorbent literature happened to be in its way. Looking at Dail’s book collection, you would be forgiven for thinking that he worked with ill-tempered dolphins and often brought his work home with him. Luckily, though, this was not the case as he had no way near the facilities required to facilitate dolphins in the home. He also didn’t work with dolphins and was therefore fairly certain that acquiring one would involve some sort of criminal aquarium based activity. Finally, Dail decided to leave the showerhead in The Bath. A bit of casual drowning wouldn’t ruin his reading the way a suicidal aqua-leap would.

An hour and a half later (a cold bath doesn’t go cold the way a hot one does) Dail had finished his book and the distinct feeling of ‘ahhhhhh-that’s-better’ had meandered its way through all the necessary veins, arteries, crannies and nooks. It was now 4 o’clock and time for food. Or rather, it would have been had there been any in the house; it almost as if a burglar had stolen all his food whilst he was in the bath… However, after a trip to the shops, all that had been bought was an ice-lolly and a new toothbrush. But this was no ordinary toothbrush. This was a fancy electric toothbrush that, by all accounts, should have been on sale in a dark windowed shop in Soho. It blurred vision and would make an entirely pleasurable gift for a female friend had the bristles been removed. Or not removed. Hygiene is very important and some people will go to great lengths to ensure it. Dail wasn’t here to judge people for improvising in a credit crunch. Just as long as they got their own toothbrush first… 

Chapter 14

‘Lions have never experienced Thursdays.’

Dail had no idea why this thought had suddenly occurred to him, here, whilst waiting for the train to work. He had equally little idea why the fact that a large African cat not being privy to such a nothing day of the week instilled such a sense of pity in him; especially one that could maul him to death with such relative ease. It’s fine, Dail thought. I can always hide in Thursdays. The lions will never think to look for me in there.

Assured of his safety, Dail reflected on one of the reasons he liked living at the end of the Northern Line: he was always guaranteed a seat on his morning commute. Apart from on Wednesdays. Because Dail didn’t work on Wednesdays, thanks to the day he stumbled across an unattended computer at work that was open on a certain file for editing. So now he had paid leave every Wednesday. An entire day to not travel during rush hour in. However, this is what he was doing now, not that it was that much a problem because, as we recently discovered, Dail was always guaranteed a seat on his morning commute.

Once he had commandeered his usual seat (at the end of the row up against the glass, for optimum leaning and minimum pushing past people to get to the door) and the train had pulled off, Dail began assessing the world via the free newspaper. Hottest summer in a long time, eh? Well thank you Mr Newspaper. The ridiculous heat outside was leading me to believe otherwise. I was on the verge of thinking that…what?! Who gets on the tube with timber?!

Someone had just gotten on the tube.

They had some timber.

As it turned out, builder/DIY types get on the tube with timber. Dail was not a builder/DIY type, hence his confusion. But his lack of construction finesse was most probably a good thing, as he held the belief that a ‘So’ should be a legitimate unit of measurement. His reasons, or so he claimed, were that if something can be ‘so’ big or if there can be ‘so’ many of something, that it must be one already. Because of this, the following kind of conversation had taken place on more than one occasion:

“How much do you want?”

“About 5 So’s please.”

“…what?”

*sigh* “Ok…hold out your hands as if you were saying something was ‘about so big’… Good. That is one So. Times it by 5 and that’s how much I want.”

Dail rarely got the right amount of whatever it was he needed, but at least it proved that the So worked in principle, and this made him happy inside.

Having abandoned any notion of reading the paper, Dail was now reading his fellow passengers instead. For the most part, this made for fairly dull reading, though there were, as always, a few notable exceptions. One of these was the most amiable, pleasant and huggably chubby man Dail had ever had the pleasure of slapping his ocular sensory organs upon. But he was trying desperately to not start beaming at this poor, unsuspecting man because, as any Londoner knows, smiling on any form of public transport (especially prior to at least 10.30am) was a faux pas of epic proportions. Dail had no understanding of what a faux pas was. He dimly remembered hearing it in a social setting once. However, it was quickly followed by laughter from the people he was with and he had decided that it was better to go along with it than steamroll their merriment for the gain of trivia which, he suspected, would have violated some hidden cultural rule and would have been highly frowned upon indeed. Then everyone got very drunk and that night Dail lost one of his shoes, but gained a flip flop with a small portion of the Underground Tube map printed on it. He generally tried not to dwell on the hellish kind of transaction that was very likely to have taken place that night.

To return to the chubby, cheery looking fellow (whom we shall refer to as Bob, despite him not really taking any further part in later events), Dail was now effectively fighting a war of two fronts within the confines of his own face,  between grinning like an idiot and not breaking Tube Law (it’s like Jude Law, but spelt differently. And not the same in any way). The resultant expression was akin to that of a man who has felt a sneeze coming for the past 30 minutes, but has just been told that there was a ham sandwich waiting for them, should they want it. The good kind of ham, too. The kind that’s really thick and juicy. Not the thin, dry stuff that looks like the product of an abandoned skin graft of an ostriches neck.  Dail was saved embarrassment by Bob reaching his destination and exiting in a jolly kind of way. Bob would later eat a disappointing ham sandwich, but would this break his sunny disposition? Actually, yes. It did. Bob wrote an angry letter about it, because, despite being chubby and cheery, Bob was British and no amount of ham sandwiches were going to stand between him and a letter in which he got to complain about something.

Two stops after Bob’s departure, something happened that would be classed as ‘bizarre’ even in Dail’s hypothetical ‘The Hell Was That?!” filing cabinet. The middle aged Chinese woman sat next to him (who, to Dail’s knowledge, had been fast asleep) suddenly flung both her arms straight up in the air, dropped them, and then had the audacity to act as nothing had happened. He could only assume he had just witness one of two things. Either, he had just seen one of the most extravagant Hypnic jerks (look it up) in commuting history, or a middle aged Chinese woman had just tried to instigate a Mexican wave…on the tube…during rush hour. He was so stunned by seeing a bit of mass sports fan activity taken so far out of context that it didn’t even occur to him that he was next in line. This Mexican wave had died an early death because of Dail and Dail alone. This had completely counteracted Bob. This wasn’t a tube ride anymore, he concluded. This was now a rollercoaster ride. An emotional rollercoaster. Haaaaaaaaa. Funny. I’m funny. Ooh bugger. Goodge Street. Work. Haaaaa. Goodge. Every time. Funny.

Chapter 13

It was at times like this that Dail realised that the loss of one sense really does enhance the ones that remain. He hadn’t actually lost any senses, strictly speaking. He couldn’t see what had happened; he had only heard it. However, this made his imagination have to work to fill in the gaps. The sound in question had just casually strolled into his ear canal, kicked off its shoes and plonked itself into it’s favourite armchair and was now waiting for someone…no, anyone to come in and keep him company. But, alas, it was not to be. Everyone was shunning his company since he’d reversed over Django, the neighbour’s cat who was loved by the entire street (so named because it had lost three of its toes, not because it was any kind of French gypsy guitar virtuoso). How was he to know the bloody thing was “trying to read his number plate”, no matter how many times he pleaded with everyone to “please, just understand that cats can’t actually read” and that this was all a horrible, horrible accident and was not intended in any way…even if he had complained about Django repeatedly bringing him ‘gifts’ of half digested newspapers. Curiously, the Sudoku on some of them had already been completed, and the birdwatching section remained suspiciously legible…

To backtrack slightly more considerably than Napoleon did in 1812, Dail had just heard something (but, crucially, not seen something) that had set off his funny gland. To set the scene: he had been walking along a quiet corridor having just been to visit the friend from Chapters 4 and 9, when from behind a closed door he heard the words “Oh god, it’s everywhere.” Already, to Dail, this was amusing. But the sheer level of panic and unremitting terror in the voice that said them, pushed him into a long forgotten realm of funny in which very little laughing occurs, despite the utter hilarity of whatever has just happened.

This had completely ruined his day. He had planned on going home, making a inexcusably large pot of tea, loading up a plate of biscuits, setting up base camp in his room and not leaving again until something that could pass as the start of a book had been written. But how could he now? Knowing that everywhere, behind closed doors, things were being said. Unseen and untouched words that were being heard by unseen and untasted ears. Limitless possibilities and combinations. For every action there is a noise but for every noise there could be so…so many actions. Someone needs to write them down. ‘From Behind Closed Doors: a study in comic situational extrapolation.’ Someone...

“Someone…like-“

“Me?”

Dail hadn’t noticed that by now he was at a bus stop, his mind too busy churning over recent events, and therefore also hadn’t noticed that he was keeping an elderly woman company. She may have been talking to/at him for quite some time now…and was grinning at him in a manner that portrayed both enthusiasm and expectancy. Clearly she wanted to be the kind of person that Dail had in mind, so he said “Yes” back at her, with as friendly a smile as anyone can muster at a bus stop.

The change in her facial expression could not have been more profound if neon lights and a marching band had been involved. Now she look scared and handbag quiveringly nervous. What kind of person does she now think she is?! Please tell me she hadn’t been talking about victims of random murders that occur at bus stops… This must be the dark underbelly of having no idea what’s been going on. The propensity for inadvertently exacting terror on unsuspecting pensioners at public transport pick-up points. As if public transport wasn’t already traumatic enough without strangers possibly informing you in an amiable manner that they intend to send you on a one way bus ride down the banks of the River Styx (via Hampstead).

By the time Dail had arrived home (thankfully, his bus had arrived fairly punctually, whilst the biddy’s hadn’t; that or she was too frozen to the spot with either fear or a very sudden, bizarre and localised weather event, that had welded her feet to the floor, to get on the bus that had turned up) his day was already taking, even by his standards, an interesting turn. On the ride home, a mother had scolded her child for licking the window, her argument being “Don’t lick the bus; you don’t know where it’s been.” The child’s response to this was one of the greatest quick fire scones of logic Dail had and would ever have the privilege of being privy to, and was simply “Yes I do, it says on the front.” Impeccable. Clinical. Borderline Nobel Prize worthy. Loaded with tasty sultanas. Mmmmm. Scones. No! No more bakeries, for at least a week.

To further pass the time on the way home, he had sat on a park bench for a while, watching the guy pigeons puff themselves up to impress the ladies, which caused him endless delight; reassuring him that it wasn’t just humans that were always doomed to failure in romance, as every single pigeon got rejected almost instantly. Maybe I should put on loads of weight and start dancing and cooing at women, Dail had surmised. But that could start attracting lady pigeons, though that seems unlikely given recent evidence, but still. Better not to risk it.

He left very soon after spotting a sultry glint in the eye of a nearby pigeon, though it is entirely possible that could have been mildly related to the bread he was flinging everywhere.

 So, intelligent children and failed romantic, airborne vermin. Still, could be worse. There could have been clowns. Clowns with deckchairs. The list of things more intestine-spasmingly worse than a clown in repose is a very short one, indeed. This list was on the verge of being written once he got home, but Dail managed to give himself a paper cut and had subsequently given it up as a lost cause, deciding that either lists were mocking him today or everything he wrote on the list would happen to him, as paper cuts were indeed going to be top of his list. To avoid further injury, he took an early bath and then an even earlier bedtime, but lost sleep over the confusion that this led to.