Sex, Lies & Crazy People. John Hickman

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      According to Borough Health man the dumb waiter’s shelves were to be tiled and edged by layers of premium stainless steel. Buffed to excellence and trimmed with industrial rubber edges then mitred and glued to professional perfection.

      “What he needs is my foot so far up his arse, he’ll taste it tomorrow,” Dad moaned.

      “If you do what he wants, won’t the dumb waiter be too heavy?” Gran asked.

      “Heavy all right. It’d fuck Hercules,” Gramps raged, as he took a long, last drag on his cigarette.

      “Watch your language,” Gran warned, “anyway be charitable. Maybe his underwear’s too tight.”

      “More likely something’s crawled up his arse and died, Girl.”

      After further deep thought and another cup of tea Dad had an idea. “What if we move our kitchen?”

      “Where to?” Gran looked stunned.

      “The servery next to our restaurant.”

      “Why?”

      “It’s smaller, Mother. Less floor and wall areas to tile. Nowhere near as expensive to satisfy picky Borough Health man. And an added advantage we’ll not need to use the dumb waiter.”

      “Dumb waiter?” Gran queried looking at me. “I didn’t know we employed them.”

      “No, Mother. I’m referring to our hand pulley lift.”

      Dad was on a high. He asked Chef Peter’s opinion.

      “Aye, right enough. Could be a blessing as keeping food hot from kitchen to gob;

      shorter soddin’ distance tis better for sure.”

      In double quick time, our new smaller kitchen was ready.

      Chef Peter grinned broadly. “It’s not big enough to break wind.”

      Between stutters, Borough Health man hid his disappointment well.

      “He looks like he’s recovering from a stroke and learning mobility again,” Gramps said, “but your kitchen is now closer to diners. A lot closer.”

      “We’ll need to impose strict new guidelines. No raised voices and definitely no bad

      language,” Dad announced.

      A case of don’t do as I do, but do as I say.

      Chef Peter was amused. “A smallish soddin’ handicap in a commercial kitchen that’s for sure. Nowt able to use a jazz of oaths. Aye, canna we not take time to cleanse

      ourselves?”

      And we did.

      The following week Dad’s application for a residential liquor licence was approved.

      “At fucking last,” he beamed. “A bloody miracle.”

      “Now we can serve rocket fuel legally to residents,” Gramps said, “surely a

      celebratory drink is called for.”

      “Cheers,” I said. “High tides all round!”

      Chapter 17

      The Love Zone

      Little did I realise that fate would roll out a welcome mat for me in the company of women.

      Much as I enjoyed the romps, sex soon became mechanical, and at times boring.

      A one-nighter here, a knee trembler there. Few of my conquests returned for another ride on my wild todger. But even with that high attrition rate I met a veritable buffet of women.

      Beau waxed lyrical. “Love is the answer, young sir, but while you’re waiting for the

      answer sex raises some pretty good questions.”

      “Who am I to complain? My glass is half-full, not half-empty. I’m having more

      orgasms than in D. H. Lawrence’s novel Lady Chatterley’s Lover.”

      “Talking of orgasms, young sir, are you aware that a pig’s orgasm lasts twenty minutes.”

      “In my next life, I want to be a pig.”

      “There’ll be swine aplenty, young sir.”

      That evening after dinner our family lingered to socialise a while.

      Dad had input. “Might it be, John, that the Royal Tunbridge Wells women you date are so fucking bored that you, such as you are, are their high point?”

      Before I could respond Gramps continued. “You know, if you ever do get married, a rest from sex might do you good.”

      “How’s that work, Gramps? I thought marriage legitimised sex.”

      “If newlyweds put a threepenny piece in a jar every time they have sex for their first year of marriage then take one out every time after their first year, that jar will never be

      empty,” Gramps answered smugly. He looked at Gran. “Come to think of it there’d probably be more action in Lenin’s tomb.”

      I nodded but was unsure. Not being over the pig, I’d become bogged down with the size of the jar.

      “Trouble is the chemistry thing,’ Gran chipped in, ‘your upstairs and your downstairs need to have a talk.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Well, when I married your Gramps I thought him a genius.”

      Gramps beamed and prepared to light up another cigarette.

      Gran frowned and continued. “Now, I know I’m living with a fool.”

      There was an uncomfortable pause before Dad leaned in close and whispered so

      everyone could hear. “I’d set you up with a goddess, or a chimpanzee, whatever it takes to get you to master that kitchen.”

      “I’ll take the goddess over the chimp, thanks.”

      Later Gramps cautioned me. “Be careful. If a woman falls pregnant her family will soon want to know the date of the wedding. It’s a bit like living in Sicily,” he was thoughtful for a moment, “but without the sun, the wine, and the pasta.”

      My corner of the hotel became love zone central, or according to Dad, “Pants down

      Palace.”

      Next day I took a shopping basket from the stack near the door at the high street

      supermarket. The sign stated, “Take a basket.” I smiled. Wondered what their management СКАЧАТЬ