iPod

Opportunity

by Enormous on December 9, 2009

I saw Nigel in the village yesterday about to cross the road in front of an oncoming double-decker school bus.

I quickly grabbed his arm and manhandled him back on to the pavement.

‘Careful, Ian. We nearly lost you there.’

‘Ian?‘

‘Sorry, Nigel. I don’t know why I called you Ian.’

‘People often call me Ian, for some reason,’ he said, taking out the earplugs to his iPod. ‘And I can tell you, if ever I am in a room with someone called Ian, it literally causes chaos.’

‘Chaos?’

‘Literally.’

‘Crikey. Anyway, what are you listening to that nearly made you step in front of a bus?’

‘Marilyn Manson.’

‘Marilyn Manson?‘

‘He’s brilliant, isn’t he.’

‘Actually, I don’t really like him, Nigel. Not really. At all.’

‘You’re just envious of him, Davy. It’s obvious.’ He was grinning now as if he had discovered my deepest dark secret.

‘It’s not that, Nigel,’ I told him. ‘I don’t enjoy listening to music that sounds like it means me harm.’

‘He’s had a lot more success than you.’

‘True. He’s just been dropped by his record company, hasn’t he?’

‘No.’ (He has.)

‘Anyway, I must dash, Ian – sorry, Nigel. Once again, talking to you has left me feeling a little overexcited. I need a cup of tea and a nice sit-down.’

‘Whatever.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘And, erm . . . well, I’d like to say thank you. You saved my life there, you know.’

‘Well, nobody’s perfect, Ian.’

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Secrets and Pies

by Enormous on July 17, 2008

I keep bumping into Reg; I think he’s stalking me. And, apart form his – sometimes quite sophisticated – jokes, he does, rather worryingly, tend to say some odd things.

Earlier today, outside the Starlight Café in the village, he looked like he was dressed for a rap video: he had on a baseball cap, baggy jeans and a New York t-shirt. Such an ensemble would suit a younger man perhaps, but on Reg the look was a little incongruous (to say the least) as he is, I believe, in his early sixties. As usual, the earplugs for his iPod were continuously popping out of his lugholes in a vain attempt to escape his sweaty head. He was munching his way through what appeared to be a still-frozen meat pie. ‘Hi, Reg! That looks underdone.’

‘S’alright,’ he chewed. ‘Pie’s a pie.’

‘What kind is it?’

‘Eh?’

‘Is it chicken or beef?’

He looked puzzled.

‘What kind of meat is it – white or red?’

He glanced down at the unappetisingly soggy, half-eaten thing in his hand. ‘Brown,’ he said after a slight pause. ‘It’s brown.’

‘Where’s your bling?’ I teased him.

‘My what?’

‘Your bling, Reg.’

He changed the subject with a question of his own. ‘Do you like the Stones, Davy? The Rolling Stones?’

‘Sometimes. Why?’

His voice became a conspiratorial whisper: ‘I’ve got a secret.’

‘Reg, I – ‘

‘Do not worry, young Jedi,’ he tapped his nose and winked at me pointedly, ‘I can see you’re busy. All will be revealed in due course.’ With that, he began a loud, tuneless whistle and trotted off towards the council offices, his elaborate and noisy gait carrying him not entirely unheralded along the busy thoroughfare.

I stood with Audrey for a few seconds and watched him disappear from view, his bowed legs skipping intermittently to some inner rhythm, some private hip-hop soundtrack that was his and his alone to enjoy – or endure, depending on your point of view.

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