A Dog’s Breakfast
Somewhat fitfully as if the seasons can’t decide and just when flowers start to bloom and nature seems all out of kilter ,winter descends on Little Tribune street in icy tongues and smokey breaths arresting any misconceptions.
Inside folk are rugged up, fires stoked ,heaters cranked till the air is so dry and the mood so dreamy that the occasional draught creeping in under doors or through ventilation holes or sneaking in via some undiscovered route is welcome. The mist rolls in off the bay and up the street swirling like vapour off a witch’s cauldron and hangs there like a shroud ,a frosty blanket as winter swaddles the street in its chilly embrace.
Geoff from round the corner darts down the street for some clandestine reason.He’s been busy with his French mopeds and dreams of restoring old villas in the South of France.But being spotted he changes direction yet again abruptly and disappears up the back lane with a lurch and a wave of an outstretched arm like that of a man drowning .
His wife can barely allow his foibles to be confined to his back shed ,so overseas travel is obviously off the agenda.If he takes a step forward it is wrong ,if he sets off with the other that too is wrong ,even those rhythms natural to man are in his case curtailed.He can no longer tell the difference between opposites and lives in a grey zone somewhere in between deferring reluctantly at all times to his wife (under some duress to be fair)
But there is one thing he holds dear,that he has never revealed to anyone, that she cannot assail;he is burning a candle for Elizabeth Rowling and he doesn’t know if she knows.He is caught again in no -mans -land .”Make a choice” his inner voice cries out “…for Gods sake…” so he extends an arm in a stiff salute and lurches up the lane awkward and embarrassed and undecided.
It is late afternoon.
Val sits in her nautical inspired townhouse on the poop deck surveying the inclement weather, feeling just a little unsettled.She is dreaming of her late husband and wonders what went wrong and why she felt she had to leave him. As the mist settles she feels the rain coming in her bones that creak as she descends to the galley kitchen to heat up a small concoction to warm and calm her lonely heart through another dulled day.
She dreams of healing people through touch and kindness and compassion aided by incense and oils and the music of whales.Sadly her subjects appear to be in short supply except for her neighbour E Rowling who keeps up a social contact .At times she feels a bit overwhelmed by her own neediness but when that happens she spends a good while dusting it off like an old overcoat until she is restored to her former state ….just a little unsettled.
Its Friday and the Minister for No Fun is at a loose end.
She arranges to meet E Rowling at the tramstop in her three wheeler which now has an added bit of paraphernalia a shower cap in case of rain. She has Ted in tow, a bottle of wine and some nibbles and suggests a video as they thread their way back to Little Tribune Street.They arrive just as the sun dips wanly in the west and darkness ushers in a chill wind.
But first the fire must be set.The Minister is sure from long experience on the land and even more of convivial winter soirees that the logs that Elizabeth has procured are too big.
Elizabeth has a small hatchet which she produces for the Minister but the Minister declares that the instrument is too small and too blunt and just wont do .She is getting into a lather of indignation and Elizabeth is increasingly flustered by the remonstrations of her distinguished guest.
The fire is lit but not without copious suggestions and corrections from the Minister about the disposition of the logs and the kindling and the paper .At last she breathes a sigh of relief as a toasty warmth suffuses the room and she collapses onto the couch where they sit and watch the movie and polish off the bottle of wine.
Time passes.
A draught appears from no where and momentarily disturbs the Minister,s composure. Her tone is pained and accusatory…
“God.. where is that draught coming from?” she whines
Elizabeth responds defensively “I know.. I know…” but foreknowledge is no consolation when things aren’t put right according to the Minister for No Fun. There’s a knock at the door. No one responds ..maybe no one hears.. the Minister is engrossed. Jock leans on the door handle and steps inside just as Elizabeth Rowling emerges timidly from the bathroom off the hall.
He presses a small gift to her breast on the quiet as he spots the Minister ensconced on the black leather couch in the plum viewing position.
They sit there somewhat glumly until the movie finishes, the spectre of the black haired Minister slowly but surely raising Jock,s ire.
At last the Minister stands up to leave but not hurriedly, gathers herself, reflects bemusedly on the evenings proceedings ,takes a plate and a wine glass to the sink and asks of Jock “How is work Jock?” as he pours himself a beer in the kitchen.
“Sorry Jock “Elizabeth interjects ,”I,m not being very hospitable tonight am I?”
“ Its your birthday soon isn’t it Jock? “the Minister enquires disingenuously.It was three weeks ago now and so dead in the water why anyone would dredge it up escapes him .
Elizabeth sees her guest off. The Minister for No Fun goes home on foot. They linger outside in the cold and the mist.If rain comes its too bad because the Minister has left her shower cap behind.
And in the morning they discover that Min the dog has gnawed into Jock,s small gift of seven handmade milk chocolates in a cellophane box with a red ribbon embroidered with the makers name ,Lizzie.
And what is left is, well.. there is no better description for it … a dog,s breakfast.
