The Flatpack Observer - a tale (part 8)

11.42

The sun, blissfully unaware that it was acting in any way out of seasonal character, blazed. Hexagon, the Vicarage tabby, sat neatly on his Master's spare cassock and watched a large furry bumble bee hover around the early bulbs in an unhurried search for nectar. He half-heartedly considered a game of pounce and swallow, then remembered last time and thought better of it. A warm breeze spread the wonderful aroma of accelerating growth around the garden and propelled an unidentified winged insect, one of many that had appeared during the morning, into Hexagon's fur, causing a ripple of irritation. The normal urge to scratch, however, was just too much effort on such a hot day.

11.37

“…well, I can tell you, that was the last time I wore braces to a funeral!

Anyway, I think I’ve taken up enough of this lovely day, time to send our customary signal to the meadow where the floats will be gathering eager to depart, I believe it’s Tom Bailey who will be leading the parade this year in his mobile abbortoir. Before I do, however, I must just tell you a short story about an incident that happened to me a few years ago……”

11.00

“… and I think that’s when I first developed my passion for root vegetables…..”

An apologetic bell tinkled apologetically and a hand-written sign offering “special discounts to the under 12’s”, fluttered groundwards as Charlie stormed through the front door of Al’s Offy. Without ceremony, he reached for the first bottle of copper-coloured liquid and, thumping it down on the counter, looked up expecting to see the reassuringly puffed and ruddy features of Al Turd, proprietor, complete with soggy roll-up and underarm stains. He was therefore rather taken aback to have his eyes met by a fresh faced nervy-looking youth with an earring.

10.40

“….and the funny thing is that, despite giving him my full postal address and phone number, I never heard from him again! Ah well, that’s Cricketers for you.
Anyway, I digress, I was about to tell you of the time my beautiful Wife and I were invited to cut the ribbon for the opening of the mackeral-smoking hut….”

Veronica’s flesh visibly crept in response to this latest complement, she pulled her Enrico Gabrielli hat over her eyes and shuffled down in the chair behind the large and malodourous figure of Mad Uncle Jack who was, as usual, dozing, in the front row. Perhaps I should point out at this juncture that Jack was not mad nor, to the best of my knowledge, was he anyones Uncle…and his name certainly wasn’t Jack. Let me explain:

The Mayor continued

“….I’m honoured to say that this is the eighth successive year that I have been asked to speak to you on the morning of our annual carnival, and what a glorious morning we have been gifted this year. Now, I know a lot of you will be wondering why the committee ask old Hedley to make a speech every year…”

Ripple of embarrassed laughter

“… well, don’t worry, I shall be brief,” (a large, well-thumbed pile of papers suggested otherwise).

A bent and bitter figure shuffled forward to the microphone. Charlie “tragic puns” Chaplinson was a relative newcomer to Flatpack, having retired to the village the previous autumn, a decision which he regretted with a bitterness only matched in its intensity by his dislike of the simple villagers. He surveyed the assembled faces with contempt,

“what a bunch of losers” he thought, and cleared his throat in a disgusting manner.

...

Three doors away, the unlikely aromatic combination of fairy cakes and white spirit drifted lazily from the kitchen window of no.5.

Paintbrush in hand, Joy Splinter-Doggeral stepped back from her homemade cake/splat the rat stall and ran a critical eye over her last minute touch-up job.

“Grand” she thought

“Looks like we’ve got a nice day for it!” she called out to her Neighbour, retired Schoolmaster and keen Naturist Bedford Trite, who sat in a deckchair enjoying a relaxing meerschaum of Captain Ginger’s wild-cut whiting shag, a recent copy of the Flatpack Observer protecting his modesty from falling sparks.

A wildflower seed sown out of season,
blown by the wind into a perfect garden;
she pushes through the trampled dirt,
past the hurt and disapproval,
past the remarks, "She's not like the others."
Though her feelings flutter like tattered leaves
in the aftermath of reckless storms,
she finds the stength to accept who she is:
a fragrant bloom, whose petals contain
the essence of love and the beauty of life,
for she is more than just a rose
...to be cut and placed in a vase.