by Heather D Haigh
So, I was totting up the cost o’ tangerines, beef burgers and custard powder—eee and, the bloomin’ prices in Grimethorpe Museum o’ Nostalgia—even steeper than when they used to sell such things down the Co-op, and I had to mention to that uppity madam at the till that ye-olde price list’s a bit tricky to read when you’re knockin’ on, and she had the temerity to stare down her nose—over them wire-rimmed spectacles, while patting that oh-so-tight bun on the top of her ‘ead—with a right-old knickers-up-your-arse expression, while I was stretching to reach the Lurpak—two for five quid would you believe—I was ‘avin plenty o’ that—but she’d piled the stuff way too high, and she said, “bit short as well as blind, huh?” Right at me.
Now before I could reply, this naked geezer came in swinging the evidence of his well-endowment, as you might say, in a jolly old fashion, and he remarked, “how rude!”
And I thought, you’re not wrong, mate.
Then, the naked fella climbed a long-long ladder up towards the ceiling—and I was thinking how nice peaches are on a hot summer’s afternoon, then he climbed through the loft-hatch—which I hadn’t noticed until that point was open and waiting—and he hauled himself through and banged it closed with a right good crack. And the whole museum trembled.
Now, you tell me, Mr Browne, which part of that doesn’t fit the homework brief this week? You asked for metaphors. You wouldn’t know one if it bit you on the proverbial, and you’ll notice my piece isn’t full o’ cliches. You asked for surrealism—have you checked the price o’ butter, lately?
Steaks? You think I can afford steak on my pension? There was a time, back when my Stan was here—God rest his soul, when we’d treat ourselves on special occasions. His birthday, Valentine’s day, that sort o’ thing.
He used to love a good book my Stan, and he used to say, “You should learn to write Gladys; you spin a grand yarn,” and well, I’m rattling ’round these days, and it’s nice to do something he’d approve of. I like to think of ‘im watching over me while I’m scribbling away in the wee hours.
Oh. Risk factor. You don’t think climbing a fifty-foot ladder with your schlong waggling around is a tad hazardous? Luckily, the chap had a good rhythm. Swing to the left—swing to the right. Brought to mind that Grandfather clock Stan found at the flea market. He never did manage to fix it properly.
Conflict? Well, pennies being tight, I was torn between plums and a nice bit o’ polony.
Focal character? I happen to think that naked fella was quite a character. I was certainly focused on him for a good while. Eighty-seven rungs. Lovely repetition. Had me humming to myself—that song by Chuck Berry. So, there you go—musicality as well.
Goal? Well, I started out wanting somethin’ nice for me tea and to pick up a few other bits and pieces but, in the end, I right enjoyed that character arc, I can tell you. Swing to the left—swing to the right. My Stan would be proper proud o’ me gettin’ it all down. Tell it like you see it, our Gladys, he’d say. Tell it like you see it.
Course it’s a story. Anecdote my left bunion. Can you not tell when sombody’s stringing you a tale?
Meta, Mr Browne—I think it might be meta. But anyway, fancy joining me at Salsa class on Saturday?
Heather is a sight-impaired spoonie and emerging working-class writer from Yorkshire. Her work has been published by Fictive Dream, The Phare, Free Flash Fiction, WestWord, The Timberline Review and others. She has won competitions with New Writers and Globe Soup and was runner-up in this year’s Kay Snow Awards for Fiction. Find her at https://haigh19c.wixsite.com/heatherbooknook
