Grimbeau

Lunchtime drifts. I am traquil, good music and the sound of white toast getting buttered. I must try the fivelights Chod thing after food and see if a mackerel pops out the top of my head: stargazer. Bowls of salad waved before me and taken away, minxes and temptresses in flip-flops. Friday afternoon, all washed up and nowhere to go. Good grubuffetoes! Tommytoes, avacatoes, fete, smoked macktoes, cold one side toasted toastoes…a repast worthy of a repast. Sun! Fatballs very popular with the chorus, no truck ad with contradictions, ducks! Contraductions, dicks! Jamming, jamming, jammin’…

…Closer to the nature, aloe Vera etc. just gone three afternoons: Dormancy. A sorb of zaps, velvet undergarments; teal-tinctured tonsils, turpitude, slumped like a Regent in a piping-bag of porphyry. Pimply, snorting Botox to smoothen the wrinkled inner nostrils that run in the family Goosebumpty, at three-forty-five, Malice, a forethought had. A rude awakening: he had not sneezed all day.

‘Milgram!’ he bellowed, ‘the catnip: Now!’

Cringing, worthless Milgram twigged his way through the door.

‘Sir?’ he moaned.

‘Sneezetime. Hurry up’

‘Sir’ Milgram hurried a yard or two, then, out of earshot, resumed his natural slink.