Living Upside Down. John Hickman

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      “This means the staff at Australia House decided to wait until after James’s first birthday.”

      “Why the hell would they do that?”

      “Because he’ll have a seat to himself on the plane.” Excitement crackles off Sue like static electricity, “Don’t you see? That qualifies us for an additional luggage allowance.”

      Roger is amazed. “I don’t believe they did it on purpose, but, I’ll go with it. We’re now well and truly government sponsored migrants, then.”

      That night Roger snores like a contented hippo about to give birth. Snoring and grunting in brute slumber, instead of dreaming about Seal Flipper Pie, Roger is dreaming of when nothing goes right, try going left.

      Thanks to the postman spreading their unbridled news, Sue is approached by local women wanting to buy items they might not be able to take with them.

      For the next week, Coxwell swarms with villagers, who are agog. Nothing this exciting has happened since 1942 when Annie Bancroft, a chambermaid at the Maid’s Head Hotel in Norwich, was bludgeoned to death.

      “Look at all this stuff,” Sue’s surveying their contents strewn over the lounge room, “looks like the inside of King Tut’s tomb.”

      “Pity it’s not as valuable.”

      Their neighbour Doreen is first to put dibs on their late model Silver Cross pram.

      Roger is on his hands and knees busily cleaning the wheel rims level with Sue’s thighs.

      “I hope you know what you’re doing down there, Roger,” Doreen says coyly.

      “That’s just what Sue always says,” Roger offers with an awkward side look at Sue.

      Cecilia is hot on Doreen’s heels wanting children’s toys. Her friend put dibs on pots, pans, and glassware. Someone suggests Roger buy a mower so he can sell it to them, cheap.

      They are making new friends from everywhere.

      The downside to their move is the Australian Government does not consider Fred a suitable candidate for Down Under. The high costs involved in Fred becoming an Aussie canine include six months in quarantine.

      Roger shakes his head, “That and his live freight passage make the costs of taking him highly prohibitive.”

      Their decision has nothing to do with Fred chewing shoes or digging up the vegetable garden next door.

      “Maybe we should get professional advice?” Sue suggests.

      Dr Doolittle, their local veterinarian, is about as pet friendly as Hyde Park. The decor hints at old fashioned values and efficiency. The view from the surgery window is not great: a variety of angles, gables, ridges and tiles of the old high street are splattered in bird poo.

      The vet and Fred are in raptures over each other every visit.

      Dr Doolittle frowns. “I’m of the opinion that Fred should be put down!”

      Sue is horrified.

      “I have trouble accepting that,” Roger replies evenly.

      “Well Roger, the cost of taking Fred with you would bankrupt most people. Do you have time to sell him or give him away? No. Well, I’ve stated the obvious really.”

      Dr Doolittle cups Fred’s face in his hands and speaks in that chirpiest of voices that people use when talking to animals or babies.

      Back home their mood is glum.

      Sue is mournful, “If we had a goldfish, then that has to be killed, too.”

      “It’s one thing to take Fred down to the vet surgery to lose his manhood,” Roger explains gloomily, “but now this! I can’t understand why a family doesn’t want to take him for free.”

      “We’ll ask around again, and see if we can find another family for Fred.”

      Chapter 4

      MOVING ON…

      At work Roger needs to broach the subject of leaving with his boss. He wants to give plenty of extra notice but he is working himself up into a nervous knot about the whole thing. He reasons getting a good reference will be important Down Under. He decides to bounce the idea off his colleague in London.

      “Give them too much notice and they’ll sack you,” his London colleague advises. “Try and avoid being sacrificed on the altar of his ambition. He’s a prick.”

      “I feel like a damned tomcat waking up to the reality of his neutering,” Roger replies, “Either way shit will happen.”

      “You’ve been reading too many bumper stickers, my friend,” came the amiable response.

      “They’re entitled to four weeks, Roger. One month’s notice. That’s it.” London’s words echo in his head.

      His dreams now have dramatic sound tracks while still searching for Seal Flipper Pie with Boss Man looming over his shoulder as the Anti-Christ.

      His horoscope this week advises minimal communication with those who pay lip service to the truth. For Roger, it has never been more than a job at best but it delivers a good, regular income. They desperately need this income. He decides to tread carefully around Boss Man; the added knowledge that he has confided in London is playing on his growing gut knot!

      On the morning of his scheduled visit to Boss Man he is awake early. It is still pitch-black outside.

      He drives slowly, as if hoping in some juvenile way that he might never arrive at his destination. The radio is on but he hears only white noise preferring the sound of silence. With the heater on full blast, he can feel his eyebrows starting to smoulder. As he approaches his destination, he grips the steering wheel so hard his fingers hurt.

       Where the hell is Dr Who and his sonic screwdriver when you need him?

      After an agonising ten minutes of turning himself into a mental pretzel, and urinating enough to water a dusty country, he mans up.

      Entering Boss Man’s office, he hopes his face will reveal none of his anxiety. Or the fact he desperately now needs to dump a log the size of a small animal.

      Roger is not a Yes Man and holds a poor opinion of those who are. He has never played that game of kissing ring fingers, bowing and scraping in order to please. With his debonair attitude, often he would have more chance of selling a drowning man a glass of water than blowing smoke up Boss Man’s arse.

      The office bears few of the usual Christmas decorations as Boss Man is humourless. He has lost his lip toupee and gained a few facial lines around his eyes since last they met. His bloodshot eyeballs are swivelling. If he turns his head quickly, they might pop out of their sockets. A long streak of misery, Boss Man is not wearing his normal suit and tie. Roger is quite sure he sleeps in them. Must be his dress down Friday on a Monday, Roger concludes.

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