|
|
Transmutation via Inculcation
(A poncey title, I know, but Kafka’d already beat me to Metamorphosis)
Chapter 1
I am a sorry sod.
There’s nothing worse than waking to find yourself in bed with your best mate’s girl. And that is how I found myself this morning. What is the proper way of extricating oneself from this situ? A hurried, “Morning,” and a mad dash for strewn clothing? An awkwardly transparent, “Blimey, I was legless last night.” Or an attempt at Round Two? The first is too horrid, really. Leaves the party of the second part feeling a bit rejected and out of sorts. The second is downright insulting to the party of the first part. Ludicrous, really. I’ve never been too drunk in my life to know what I was doing. I opted for the third scenario. Can’t kill a bloke for trying, eh?
And my overture was warmly welcomed. However, instead of being relieved, this only served to put a thought in my head that I didn’t quite like being there. An emotion I don’t care to be connected to in any way - guilt. And a bit of anger. It’s one thing for me to be unfaithful to my fiancée; I’ve done it before. Not proud of it; I get over it quickly. And I never feel the need to tell her. It’s another thing for me to betray Barmy. I’d never done that before. Only reason is he never had a girl I fancied. I could not get my head round her betraying him. Naturally, I chalked it up to my massively alluring charm and my extremely high irresistibility quotient. (Barmy says it’s due to my abnormally high pheromone levels. I believe the blighter’s on to something there.) The poor darling didn’t really stand a chance, did she? How could she kick me out of her bed after the night we’d spent together? Not that I totally remembered the night before. I had had too much to drink; not so much that I couldn’t function, mind you. A vague recollection of it being rather more than enjoyable was perhaps the thing that sparked the third item on my list. However, an ember of remorse or something began to spark an uneasy feeling and I coughed a good deal to discourage her pucker.
As I rummaged about the bedside table for my pack of smokes I saw my best mate’s goofy face staring back at me from a wood frame. I gave him the thumbs-up and inhaled a lungful. Nothing like the first fag of the day.
Bedsprings creaked and I turned to find her watching me. She looked quite scrummy, considering.
“Fag?” I offered with a smile. She shook her noggin and adjusted the sheets, covering herself rather provocatively. She raked her fingers through her tousled hair looking ever so desirable.
“Breakfast?” she asked and stifled a yawn.
“If you’re on the menu,” I replied, thinking that was clever. One likes to be friendly in these situs.
She emitted a regal sniff and scarpered across me, sheet dragging behind like a bloody princess’ train.
“I like mine fried, darling,” I called after her as she exited the room.
“Fix them any way you like,” was her reply.
Couldn’t help but laugh. I’d always liked her, ever since Barmy introduced us at Tesco’s. She’s got a great laugh, a feisty nature, and pleasing to the eyes; a volatile tart by definition. Too much of a woman for him, I always thought. Don’t get me wrong, he’s an ace bloke, just not what a woman like this requires, is my thinking.
Legging it would have been the proper thing to do. However, somewhere in amongst the algorithms that seem to float round inside my head was the notion that this bird could spill the beans on our tryst with little prodding.
I heard the shower and made the move. Treading lightly across her bare wood floors, I ditched the fag and stepped into the bath. A praiseworthy bottom greeted me at first glance. Her head was covered in suds.
“Damn!” she cried upon opening her eyes and getting shampoo inside. “I thought you were doing breakfast.”
“Edibles be damned is my motto.” I leaned in for the kiss. The silly girl backed away, bumping her head on the shower wall. She pouted and rubbed her head. “I don’t feel like being kissed by you.”
I was gobsmacked.
“Oh, stop looking like a scolded spaniel,” she chided. “Hand me the conditioner.”
I did. Stood there wondering about that bit re: her not wanting to be kissed by me. No woman had turned down a kiss from me since I turned 16. Not even that lesbian at Mars. I was perplexed, if perplexed is the word I want, and suddenly didn’t want to be in the shower with this woman. I stepped out leaving her to condition her hair and dried myself, all the time thinking.
Caught sight of myself in her foggy mirror and saw the furrow creasing the brow. Odd, this, I thought and went to fetch the scattered garments. Avoided the eyes of my best mate’s photo as I stepped into the trousers. Turned my back on him and did up the flies.
She approached wrapped in a towel; another turbaned round her head. “I like mine scrambled,” she said and went to her wardrobe.
So, I wasn’t getting the old heave-ho after all. This jelly-beaner wanted me to do her a breakfast. I stood there buttoning up the shirtfront, lips pursed. A towel flew past my eyes. Quickly followed by a second. I leant round the wardrobe door for a second helping. Enjoyed the view for a moment or two before grabbing up the socks. “Coffee or tea?” I heard myself asking and stopped dead in my tracks.
“Tea.”
I’d never made breakfast for a woman in my life. Not even for my mum on Mother’s Day when I was a child. I staggered inwardly and gripped the doorknob for support. “Toast?” the vocal chords chimed out in a cheery tone. I slapped a hand over the mouth and blinked rapidly.
“I don’t think there’s any bread,” she said and stepped away from the wardrobe wearing a short, tight black skirt and white shirt unbuttoned to here. “What?” she asked in response to the goofy look on my mug and slipped her feet into black heels in the sexiest manner I’d ever seen it done. I mean, I’m not a foot or shoe fetishist, mind you, but the way she did it…blimey!
I managed to swallow and visually traversed the woman from stern to stem. Speech eluded me so I smiled like an idiot after a hoof to the head incident.
I found the kitchen just where we’d left it the previous night. An empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot stood on the floor, two fluted glasses, one lipstick stained, nestled beside it. They looked like they’d had a pleasant time together. An image of the jolly participants flashed before my bloodshot eyes. If I mishandled the situ, I was done for. I stared at the spot on the floor and found my mouth full of cotton wool. I grabbed the tap and drank cold water from my hand, splashing some on my face as well.
I heard her messing about in the other room, applying some mascara and lippy, no doubt. She hummed to herself. A bit of cogitation juggernauted through the cerebellum: I wouldn’t half mind hearing that humming from time to time. I bolted upright and slammed my head on the nearest cupboard.
“What are you doing?” she called out upon hearing my oath.
I rubbed the pate and lowered the volume on the oaths.
“It’s the one next to the sink,” she called out again, hearing me mucking about with saucepans.
“Right ho!”
“Top shelf,” she instructed after hearing the fridge door squeak open.
“Hmm?”
“The eggs.”
“A drop of oil or something would get that to stop.”
She was suddenly standing beside me, giving me a blank stare.
“Erm, the squeak,” I explained and opened and shut the door to illustrate.
“Really?” was all she said and took out the bottle of juice on my last opening demonstration. She must have doused herself with something fragrant because she smelled dead lovely. She swigged back a mouthful of the concentrate and handed it to me.
She dropped the champagne bottle into the trash bin and set the glasses in the sink without a detectable trace of longing or care. I studied the female as she rummaged in her bag. “Got a light?” She held up a fag.
I produced one and found my hand shaking a bit as I ignited the thing. Just like in films, she placed a hand on mine for stabilising purposes. It didn’t work.
Barmy was in way over his head with this fashion bunny and damn my eyes if I could grasp her interest in him.
“Cheers,” she said offhandedly and slipped on her jewellery in that casually rehearsed way of hers. Not that I found it counterfeit in any way; I mean after all, she’d been doing this – the putting on of jewellery, not shagging her boyfriend’s best mate – daily for a decade or so, so, naturally, she’d got it down by now. There was nothing clumsy about this woman. Serene would be the word to use re: her movements. Definitely not the sort of woman to clamber atop a chair should a rodent appear on the scene. A capable woman.
Forcing the bloodshot orbs from her strategically crossed legs; I did her up some tea and scrambled eggs with shredded Parmesan cheese and a wedge of tomato. I’ve always believed presentation is as essential as the meal itself.
“Ta,” she said and took a sip and a forkful.
Found myself standing there like a finicky chef awaiting approbation or something equally wonky.
The woman rose, poured the remains of the tea in the sink and scraped the eggs into the trash. “I’m off,” she announced and sallied towards the door.
“That’s it?” I asked and sort of wrang the hands as I followed in her aromatic wake.
She turned and faced me. “What were you expecting?”
I floundered a bit, guppying the mouth, attempting to get something clever out.
She patted my cheek. “Lock up when you go, eh?”
Was stymied, if stymied is the word I want. Stood there in the gawping silence feeling a bit bewildered and chagrined. Then a notion popped into my head. I shook the old noggin to dislodge it, but remain it did. I felt…used. Staring at the shut door did nothing to dispel the gnawing. This London yo-yo had used me. But why? Surely not to get at Barmy. He was a firm believer in monogamy. Could it be there was no reason other than Barmy was away and I was at hand?
I collapsed on the sofa and reflected on my image in the blank telly screen. You know the look you get when the physician approaches with the rubber glove and your pants are down? Such was the look plastered on the face gazing back at me from the screen. Sort of a stunned, ‘Do we really have to do this?’ dreading look.
'Violated' is the searched-for word. Granted, I was a willing participant. No coercion necessary to get me to my present circs., mind you. However, I must confess, it was always me being the one to leg it abruptly afterwards with a cheery, ‘Ta ra,’ and an adroit nicking of the neighbour’s morning paper.
A gong of realisation clanged in my ears, reverberating through my entire being. So, this is how they felt. A pleasurable time spent but left behind to do the washing up alone.
Females invariably think about a thing too much. They analyse a thing to morbidity - a word, a gesture, a look - then perform a post-mortem on it, dissecting it to see if they’ve overlooked the minutest of details. Then they suss the thing with their girlfriends to see if they can shed some light on it. Curious things, females. But where would we be without them, eh?
Blokes, on the other hand, go about their lives with their heads up their arses 95% of the time. The other 5% is spent on sports or a sports-related activity that requires some brain power, knowing which team is playing which team, who’s next at snooker, who’s light in the ante, or who’s due to plunk down for the next round. We don’t worry about emotions generally. Can’t be arsed. If something gets on your wick, it just does. If something makes you happy, it just does. Simple, really. Go on from there.
But can one go through life like that? Perhaps these females were on to something. Not that one wants to become this ball of agitated pathos steeped in intense thought, but perhaps one can take a moment to sort of look at a thing and think.
Punched in a familiar number and listened to it ring. “Hello?” the fiancée asked in a sleepy voice.
“Good morning, darling.” I sounded cheerful coz I was. I wondered, fleetingly, did she hear a difference in my voice.
“Hello, you.”
“Did I wake you, my sweet?”
“No. The alarm did that a minute ago.” I could hear her smother a yawn and envisioned her in bed; hair mussed, wearing one of my T-shirts because she feels closer to me in it. I lit a fag and blew fat smoke rings ceilingward. I was experiencing some sort of bubbly swelling mid-sternum and realised it was one of
those goofy pangs of longing for my girl. This pang of longing was not to be misconstrued as one of those naughty pangs. This was a pure pang of longing; wanting to be there with the Owner of the Matched Set so I could gaze dreamily into her Gemma Arterton eyes and whisper poetical things one whispers when deeply in love.
“Miss you,” the voice box trilled before I could stop it.
“Do you? That’s awfully nice. I miss you too, softhead,” she said in that sort of husky beddy voice. “Are you at your office already?”
“No. You?”
She laughed her tinkly laugh. And you haven’t heard a more delightful laugh if you haven’t heard my girl’s tinkly one.
“Why do you ask?” I jabbed at a smoke ring, grabbed up my bespoke Paul Smith jacket and shut the door behind me.
“Oh, just wondering…” That coyness thing she did on occasion made me smile. She was being seductive and damn my eyes if I didn’t half break into a sprint down Denmark Street.
“How ‘bout I pop round and do you up a proper breakfast?” I asked, suddenly excited at the prospect, and hailed an approaching taxi.
“You’re joking!”
I laughed. “No. Quite the opposite. I never wanted to do anything more in my mangy existence than to do you breakfast.” And it was true. I giggled with anticipation, but in a manly way.
“That would be…lovely,” the soon-to-be ball and chain cooed.
“You’re the tits, darling.”
(A poncey title, I know, but Kafka’d already beat me to Metamorphosis)
Chapter 1
I am a sorry sod.
There’s nothing worse than waking to find yourself in bed with your best mate’s girl. And that is how I found myself this morning. What is the proper way of extricating oneself from this situ? A hurried, “Morning,” and a mad dash for strewn clothing? An awkwardly transparent, “Blimey, I was legless last night.” Or an attempt at Round Two? The first is too horrid, really. Leaves the party of the second part feeling a bit rejected and out of sorts. The second is downright insulting to the party of the first part. Ludicrous, really. I’ve never been too drunk in my life to know what I was doing. I opted for the third scenario. Can’t kill a bloke for trying, eh?
And my overture was warmly welcomed. However, instead of being relieved, this only served to put a thought in my head that I didn’t quite like being there. An emotion I don’t care to be connected to in any way - guilt. And a bit of anger. It’s one thing for me to be unfaithful to my fiancée; I’ve done it before. Not proud of it; I get over it quickly. And I never feel the need to tell her. It’s another thing for me to betray Barmy. I’d never done that before. Only reason is he never had a girl I fancied. I could not get my head round her betraying him. Naturally, I chalked it up to my massively alluring charm and my extremely high irresistibility quotient. (Barmy says it’s due to my abnormally high pheromone levels. I believe the blighter’s on to something there.) The poor darling didn’t really stand a chance, did she? How could she kick me out of her bed after the night we’d spent together? Not that I totally remembered the night before. I had had too much to drink; not so much that I couldn’t function, mind you. A vague recollection of it being rather more than enjoyable was perhaps the thing that sparked the third item on my list. However, an ember of remorse or something began to spark an uneasy feeling and I coughed a good deal to discourage her pucker.
As I rummaged about the bedside table for my pack of smokes I saw my best mate’s goofy face staring back at me from a wood frame. I gave him the thumbs-up and inhaled a lungful. Nothing like the first fag of the day.
Bedsprings creaked and I turned to find her watching me. She looked quite scrummy, considering.
“Fag?” I offered with a smile. She shook her noggin and adjusted the sheets, covering herself rather provocatively. She raked her fingers through her tousled hair looking ever so desirable.
“Breakfast?” she asked and stifled a yawn.
“If you’re on the menu,” I replied, thinking that was clever. One likes to be friendly in these situs.
She emitted a regal sniff and scarpered across me, sheet dragging behind like a bloody princess’ train.
“I like mine fried, darling,” I called after her as she exited the room.
“Fix them any way you like,” was her reply.
Couldn’t help but laugh. I’d always liked her, ever since Barmy introduced us at Tesco’s. She’s got a great laugh, a feisty nature, and pleasing to the eyes; a volatile tart by definition. Too much of a woman for him, I always thought. Don’t get me wrong, he’s an ace bloke, just not what a woman like this requires, is my thinking.
Legging it would have been the proper thing to do. However, somewhere in amongst the algorithms that seem to float round inside my head was the notion that this bird could spill the beans on our tryst with little prodding.
I heard the shower and made the move. Treading lightly across her bare wood floors, I ditched the fag and stepped into the bath. A praiseworthy bottom greeted me at first glance. Her head was covered in suds.
“Damn!” she cried upon opening her eyes and getting shampoo inside. “I thought you were doing breakfast.”
“Edibles be damned is my motto.” I leaned in for the kiss. The silly girl backed away, bumping her head on the shower wall. She pouted and rubbed her head. “I don’t feel like being kissed by you.”
I was gobsmacked.
“Oh, stop looking like a scolded spaniel,” she chided. “Hand me the conditioner.”
I did. Stood there wondering about that bit re: her not wanting to be kissed by me. No woman had turned down a kiss from me since I turned 16. Not even that lesbian at Mars. I was perplexed, if perplexed is the word I want, and suddenly didn’t want to be in the shower with this woman. I stepped out leaving her to condition her hair and dried myself, all the time thinking.
Caught sight of myself in her foggy mirror and saw the furrow creasing the brow. Odd, this, I thought and went to fetch the scattered garments. Avoided the eyes of my best mate’s photo as I stepped into the trousers. Turned my back on him and did up the flies.
She approached wrapped in a towel; another turbaned round her head. “I like mine scrambled,” she said and went to her wardrobe.
So, I wasn’t getting the old heave-ho after all. This jelly-beaner wanted me to do her a breakfast. I stood there buttoning up the shirtfront, lips pursed. A towel flew past my eyes. Quickly followed by a second. I leant round the wardrobe door for a second helping. Enjoyed the view for a moment or two before grabbing up the socks. “Coffee or tea?” I heard myself asking and stopped dead in my tracks.
“Tea.”
I’d never made breakfast for a woman in my life. Not even for my mum on Mother’s Day when I was a child. I staggered inwardly and gripped the doorknob for support. “Toast?” the vocal chords chimed out in a cheery tone. I slapped a hand over the mouth and blinked rapidly.
“I don’t think there’s any bread,” she said and stepped away from the wardrobe wearing a short, tight black skirt and white shirt unbuttoned to here. “What?” she asked in response to the goofy look on my mug and slipped her feet into black heels in the sexiest manner I’d ever seen it done. I mean, I’m not a foot or shoe fetishist, mind you, but the way she did it…blimey!
I managed to swallow and visually traversed the woman from stern to stem. Speech eluded me so I smiled like an idiot after a hoof to the head incident.
I found the kitchen just where we’d left it the previous night. An empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot stood on the floor, two fluted glasses, one lipstick stained, nestled beside it. They looked like they’d had a pleasant time together. An image of the jolly participants flashed before my bloodshot eyes. If I mishandled the situ, I was done for. I stared at the spot on the floor and found my mouth full of cotton wool. I grabbed the tap and drank cold water from my hand, splashing some on my face as well.
I heard her messing about in the other room, applying some mascara and lippy, no doubt. She hummed to herself. A bit of cogitation juggernauted through the cerebellum: I wouldn’t half mind hearing that humming from time to time. I bolted upright and slammed my head on the nearest cupboard.
“What are you doing?” she called out upon hearing my oath.
I rubbed the pate and lowered the volume on the oaths.
“It’s the one next to the sink,” she called out again, hearing me mucking about with saucepans.
“Right ho!”
“Top shelf,” she instructed after hearing the fridge door squeak open.
“Hmm?”
“The eggs.”
“A drop of oil or something would get that to stop.”
She was suddenly standing beside me, giving me a blank stare.
“Erm, the squeak,” I explained and opened and shut the door to illustrate.
“Really?” was all she said and took out the bottle of juice on my last opening demonstration. She must have doused herself with something fragrant because she smelled dead lovely. She swigged back a mouthful of the concentrate and handed it to me.
She dropped the champagne bottle into the trash bin and set the glasses in the sink without a detectable trace of longing or care. I studied the female as she rummaged in her bag. “Got a light?” She held up a fag.
I produced one and found my hand shaking a bit as I ignited the thing. Just like in films, she placed a hand on mine for stabilising purposes. It didn’t work.
Barmy was in way over his head with this fashion bunny and damn my eyes if I could grasp her interest in him.
“Cheers,” she said offhandedly and slipped on her jewellery in that casually rehearsed way of hers. Not that I found it counterfeit in any way; I mean after all, she’d been doing this – the putting on of jewellery, not shagging her boyfriend’s best mate – daily for a decade or so, so, naturally, she’d got it down by now. There was nothing clumsy about this woman. Serene would be the word to use re: her movements. Definitely not the sort of woman to clamber atop a chair should a rodent appear on the scene. A capable woman.
Forcing the bloodshot orbs from her strategically crossed legs; I did her up some tea and scrambled eggs with shredded Parmesan cheese and a wedge of tomato. I’ve always believed presentation is as essential as the meal itself.
“Ta,” she said and took a sip and a forkful.
Found myself standing there like a finicky chef awaiting approbation or something equally wonky.
The woman rose, poured the remains of the tea in the sink and scraped the eggs into the trash. “I’m off,” she announced and sallied towards the door.
“That’s it?” I asked and sort of wrang the hands as I followed in her aromatic wake.
She turned and faced me. “What were you expecting?”
I floundered a bit, guppying the mouth, attempting to get something clever out.
She patted my cheek. “Lock up when you go, eh?”
Was stymied, if stymied is the word I want. Stood there in the gawping silence feeling a bit bewildered and chagrined. Then a notion popped into my head. I shook the old noggin to dislodge it, but remain it did. I felt…used. Staring at the shut door did nothing to dispel the gnawing. This London yo-yo had used me. But why? Surely not to get at Barmy. He was a firm believer in monogamy. Could it be there was no reason other than Barmy was away and I was at hand?
I collapsed on the sofa and reflected on my image in the blank telly screen. You know the look you get when the physician approaches with the rubber glove and your pants are down? Such was the look plastered on the face gazing back at me from the screen. Sort of a stunned, ‘Do we really have to do this?’ dreading look.
'Violated' is the searched-for word. Granted, I was a willing participant. No coercion necessary to get me to my present circs., mind you. However, I must confess, it was always me being the one to leg it abruptly afterwards with a cheery, ‘Ta ra,’ and an adroit nicking of the neighbour’s morning paper.
A gong of realisation clanged in my ears, reverberating through my entire being. So, this is how they felt. A pleasurable time spent but left behind to do the washing up alone.
Females invariably think about a thing too much. They analyse a thing to morbidity - a word, a gesture, a look - then perform a post-mortem on it, dissecting it to see if they’ve overlooked the minutest of details. Then they suss the thing with their girlfriends to see if they can shed some light on it. Curious things, females. But where would we be without them, eh?
Blokes, on the other hand, go about their lives with their heads up their arses 95% of the time. The other 5% is spent on sports or a sports-related activity that requires some brain power, knowing which team is playing which team, who’s next at snooker, who’s light in the ante, or who’s due to plunk down for the next round. We don’t worry about emotions generally. Can’t be arsed. If something gets on your wick, it just does. If something makes you happy, it just does. Simple, really. Go on from there.
But can one go through life like that? Perhaps these females were on to something. Not that one wants to become this ball of agitated pathos steeped in intense thought, but perhaps one can take a moment to sort of look at a thing and think.
Punched in a familiar number and listened to it ring. “Hello?” the fiancée asked in a sleepy voice.
“Good morning, darling.” I sounded cheerful coz I was. I wondered, fleetingly, did she hear a difference in my voice.
“Hello, you.”
“Did I wake you, my sweet?”
“No. The alarm did that a minute ago.” I could hear her smother a yawn and envisioned her in bed; hair mussed, wearing one of my T-shirts because she feels closer to me in it. I lit a fag and blew fat smoke rings ceilingward. I was experiencing some sort of bubbly swelling mid-sternum and realised it was one of
those goofy pangs of longing for my girl. This pang of longing was not to be misconstrued as one of those naughty pangs. This was a pure pang of longing; wanting to be there with the Owner of the Matched Set so I could gaze dreamily into her Gemma Arterton eyes and whisper poetical things one whispers when deeply in love.
“Miss you,” the voice box trilled before I could stop it.
“Do you? That’s awfully nice. I miss you too, softhead,” she said in that sort of husky beddy voice. “Are you at your office already?”
“No. You?”
She laughed her tinkly laugh. And you haven’t heard a more delightful laugh if you haven’t heard my girl’s tinkly one.
“Why do you ask?” I jabbed at a smoke ring, grabbed up my bespoke Paul Smith jacket and shut the door behind me.
“Oh, just wondering…” That coyness thing she did on occasion made me smile. She was being seductive and damn my eyes if I didn’t half break into a sprint down Denmark Street.
“How ‘bout I pop round and do you up a proper breakfast?” I asked, suddenly excited at the prospect, and hailed an approaching taxi.
“You’re joking!”
I laughed. “No. Quite the opposite. I never wanted to do anything more in my mangy existence than to do you breakfast.” And it was true. I giggled with anticipation, but in a manly way.
“That would be…lovely,” the soon-to-be ball and chain cooed.
“You’re the tits, darling.”
