“What are you doing here? I
thought I lost you in the Pennines.” Dail puzzled in a confused manner, similar
to that of a person who might ask ‘What?’ to no-one in particular, after having
woken up in different pyjamas to those that they fell asleep in.
“Well, we’re eating lunch together
and I ran out of food, so I thought I’d come over to the buffet table and get
some more. What are YOU doing here?”
“Oh…pretty
much the same.” Dail often forgot to clue people in on stories he’d been making
up whilst he was feigning interest in conversation…
However,
on this occasion he had been paying attention to the conversation, but
had merely been trying to be funny, as he often felt compelled to do when
hanging out with Gigi. She had been filling him in on some bank problems she’d
been having, a bank that Dail already had certain strong opinions on due to
their habit of creating adverts that had taken popular songs and altered their
lyrics to meet their own diabolical ends, thus ruining the original (often
classic) song forever. Any organisation that felt that such behaviour was
acceptable would never be trusted with Dail’s money.
“Would you
happen to know anyone who might be looking for the top halves of some glove
fingers? Just that I have ten and I don’t know what to do with them” he
inquired once they were sat back at their table.
“Why do
you have the top halves of glove fingers?” quizzed Gigi, peering over her plate
of Spaghetti Napoli with a look of mixed curiosity and mild concern, to which
Dail held up a hand clad in the corresponding bottom half of the aforementioned
glove. “Can’t help you I’m afraid. If anyone announces that they’ve bought some
fingerless gloves but want to make the lateral move back to full finger
coverage, I’ll get in touch with you” she grinned.
“Much
appreciated” returned Dail with his half-smile (for some reason, only the right
half of his mouth actually moved towards the heavens (thought he wasn’t
religious) when he smiled, a biological phenomenon that he was yet to
understand).
They were
in a nifty little Italian all-you-can-eat near Euston station, where they
frequently went to munch on tasties until they felt tired and unable to move.
But move they did, back to Gigi’s Muswell Hill flat that she shared with two
friends, neither of whom were in as it was a Wednesday and they were both at
work (not that Dail and Gigi didn’t work; they did, just not on Wednesday
afternoons, a habit that Dail in particular had picked up from university).
“So you
mentioned you were writing a book or something?” probed Gigi.
“Nnnyes, I
am indeed.”
“How’s
that going?”
“Well its
not really going at all. Somewhat stationary. Not even trundling along at a
merry pace, like a car that’s been left on a slight incline with the handbrake
off. Oh bums.”
“What have
you done this time?”
“Spilled
some water.”
Dail was
making some tea, evidently employing the ‘new-school’ method, which required
you to make it on the worktop first, then move it into the mug after. A paper
towel and the awkward, yet mandatory,
‘carrying-a-mug-of-scaling-hot-liquid-walk’ later, they were sat on the sofa
watching a DVD.
“So this
book, what’s happening?”
“Oh yeah,
nothing. Don’t have any ideas for it, and believe me, I’ve been trying.”
“You could
write a children’s book? You’re fairly childish.”
“Already
tried, nada.”
“Hmm…well,
you’re fairly funny and pretty decent at drawing,” there were two paintings in
the living room that Dail had effectively been commissioned to do for the flat,
“so I guess you could just fill a book with your random thoughts and doodles?”.
“Yeah,
could do. Actually, that’s quite a good idea.” That’s a terrible idea.
“Really?”
gasped Gigi, with all the excitement of a child who had just been told that
Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny frequently went on special ‘fun-making’
holidays together, whilst the adult who was doing the telling inwardly giggled
at the possible innuendos that a ‘fun-making’ holiday could entail.
“Yeah.”
No. It would end up being a diary and no-one, would want to read that. The only
thing that might beat it in the “things-that-people-are-not-likely-to-read”
stakes would be a 946 page book that documented, in far more detail than was
necessary by any standards, the bowel movements of a small woodland vole. It’s
name might even be Gerald. ‘Tis a good name for a vole, albeit a somewhat unnecessary
one, given the other voles can’t say it…or write it. Or even mime it. Ha, vole
mime shows. I would so pay to see that. A miming vole … a mole! No wait, they
already exist. Bum hats. Ah well, can’t all b- Wait, has she been talking this
whole time?!
“So what
should I do?” she asked in a tone that suggested the situation in question was
a somewhat serious and that it would take every last grain of blagging skill
that Dail possessed to execute his next words successfully.
“I think…”
come on Dail “you should…” think of something “probably…” soon…
“just…” any time now… “end up…” …bugger it “…improvising.”
“Improvising?”
“Improvising.
It’s the purest form of expression.” Grinned Dail.
“You
think…that I should improvise…paying my rent.”
“Of
course." Bugger. "Do some
stand up for your landlord. Some interpretive dance. Throw some shapes!”
“…And your
real answer?” sighed Gigi with an almost imperceptible raise of the eyebrow (so
imperceptible it may have just been a face muscle getting bored and shifting
position slightly, just to shake things up a bit).
“I have no
idea. Sell your body to science?”
“We’ve
been over this. No.”
“Well then
my thought well has dried up. How much short are you?”
“About
£100.”
“Hmm…” hmm’d Dail and then, after a pause that was
the kind of length that implies deep thought is occurring… “Science!”. The
cushion (which Gigi insisted was only ‘playfully thrown’) almost took out his
eye.
