Continue the story.....

[itsmeagain]

returned home 🏡 with Lickety, who incidentally is an utterly beautiful kitty cat.

Then Clyde Piper reared his absurd head again ( we were forced to live with this odd boy under our roof) to propose a joint letter to the council, asking for special measures in favour of cats. He took up a special Parker pen, silver nib, and 

[poppy]

electric green ink which I felt was downright pretentious and taking eccentricity a bit far.

I left him to it with the stipulation that he showed the letter to me before he sent it off.

Cuddling Lickety and feeding him snippets of biltong, I went off in search of Rosie. It seemed an age since I'd seen her, so much had happened in the interim and I hoped ...

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the silly Piper hadn't got hold of her and inculcated into her his ludicrous brand of sentiment, with worldly wise proactively, creepy crawly sentimentality, blushing effusiveness to Rosie, an over attachment to the cats, an utter obsession with work and being the best. What a twit, I 

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thought, rolling my eyes. Spare me from the earnest, woke younger generation wearing tshirts with gag-making slogans like 'When You Care Enough To Be Your Very Best.'

Today Clyde was wearing one saying ...

[itsmeagain]

'In time of Crisis..choose chocs', with a picture of a gigantic chocolate pudding swimming in sickly brown chocolate 🍮 custard.

Where does the twerp get his oddball ideas?

Consumed by such a reverie, I was unaware of a force

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to be reckoned with lurking in the shadows.

'So you've deigned to return, have you?' demanded who but that cursed, loathsome Major Flowers.

Ignoring his question I asked where Rosie was.

'Rosie needed pampering after all your neglect so I've sent her off to a spa retreat. It's the least you could do, considering what my poor girl has to put up with. Ever since she met you she's ...'

I didn't hear the rest, I slammed the door on him, locked it and went off to ...

 

 

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lie down with a tea in one hand, a Chekhov in the other. 

It was only when I woke , shivering and soaked in cold tea, a book nestled on my face, that I began to think  I had made a poor decision. 

I mean , truly, would it be

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better to concentrate on books that weren't so soporific? The same thing happened every time I attempted to delve into an Ibsen or Dostoevsky. I'd no sooner read 'Alexey Fyodorovich Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov ,..' and my eyes started to glaze over. Perhaps I needed to try something a bit racier. It would save a fortune in spilt tea, laundry bills and first degree burns. But my musings were rudely interrupted by a loud pounding noise coming from the office. Time for me to ...

 

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start perusing novels of a raunchy nature, did one surmise? In my experience, there was a profound risk of 

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disappointment. Forty pages into Lady Chatterly's Lover and I'd nodded off from boredom. The writing in Fifty Shades of Grey was so abysmal and trashy that I'd rather get a prostate exam than go anywhere near it. No, I'm going to stick to my Tom Clancy's and Lee Child's, thank you very much, when I need a little excitement in my life. Talking of excitement, it now sounded like the Major had taken to the office door with a sledgehammer. All the cats were going berserk.  And who should walk into this pandemonium but my darling Rosie, looking very ...

[itsmeagain]

crestfallen, announcing she's had a call from Frank Bott, chief taxman in London, asking for 2.5k in spondoolix pronto, or court proceedings will implement themselves before you  could say even 'Jack Robinson ' and hey, what was it she heard in the hairdresser's today?

Mrs Blotch was saying how handsome her youngest Labrador was, and asking Rosie if you'd  

Edited November 23, 2024 by itsmeagain

[poppy]

like a 'wee puppy friend'. As much as I love dogs, we had the cats to consider and I didn't want them bothered by an over-excited bouncing puppy.
'Your hair looks lovely, Rosie. What colour do you call that?'
'Sea Mermaid. Johnny, what's that noise?'
'What noise?' I asked innocently.
'That thumping noise, it sounds like it's coming from the office.'
'Oh, it's probably just Cylde doing a bit of spring cleaning. You know how enthusiastic he is.'
'I must catch up with him and see what he thinks of my hairdo.'
'No, Rosie, let's have a cup of tea and a catch up first. I've got so much to tell you.'
But too late, she was making a beeline for the office.
'Why, the doors locked!'  she exclaimed.
'Golly gosh, how did that happen?'
'Did you lock him in??!!'
She unlocked the door and out burst a very purple-faced,  irate and hyperventilating Daddy.
'YOU, YOU ...

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two timing, you suspicion arousing, late evening arousing, simplified, dumbed down, scrubbed up, puppy like, dog gone, downturn mouthed, miserable provider of domestic help to .to..to..to...'

Suddenly the apoplectic old boy fell to the floor, with

'Johnny old boy..please..get me my fave record , Nina Simone, Wild is the Wind..old..boy..me and her mother..we..have a ..large fortune..and..she.. well we'll give it out to you if you gimme my music.."

'Daddy oh daddy well get you to hospital right away" , we shouted in tandem, the ambulance 🚑  

Edited November 24, 2024 by itsmeagain

[poppy]

... we'll call the ambulance straight away. Johnny, quick, ring for an ambulance!'
'What about the music?' I asked, stalling for time.
'RING FOR AN AMBULANCE, NOW!' shouted Rosie.
I rang 111, the number for less urgent cases. I could always pretend I got them mixed up. With a bit of luck the old coot would croak before they arrived. And it would give me time to get something concrete in writing about leaving us all his brass.
He must be in a pretty bad way, talking about Rosie's mother like that, she'd been dead for years.

To add a bit of insult to injury, I cranked up Wild as the Wind by Bon Jovi.  I couldn't wait to see his face.
But when I strolled back in, there he was ...
 

Edited November 25, 2024 by poppy

[itsmeagain]

sipping sherry like a good un. 

' Well darn it, there's mah ole buddy Johnny Disgraceful, and isn't it swell you've awl come out to Wiscaansin today to see us..(waits for applause, which rings out from a crackling LP)..yeah Wiscaansin..this next waan is called. WHO SAYS You can't go home...'

And at that, the old twerp stood up, gyrating to Bon Jovi like a hula dancer from Hawaii, the type I liked to see gyrating on TV when I was 15.....enough of that...he said" Old bean, this amazingly spiffing, have you

Edited November 25, 2024 by itsmeagain

[poppy]

got Thunderstuck by AD/BC? I loved doing the polka to that when I was in Wisconsin. It's their national dance, don't you know.'
'Thunderstruck is?? I asked incredulously. 'He's really lost the plot now, Rosie,' I said in an aside.
'I know, he's only ever listened to high-brow opera and classical music, like Boccherini and Donizetti.'
'Never heard of them.  Sounds like foreign muck to me.'
'Yes, I'm more of an ABBA and Barry Manilow fan myself.'
I thought it best not to comment on that.
A faint siren could be heard approaching.
Daddy looked excited, 'That'll be ...

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the stew being delivered.  I ordered chicken a la bonhomie, a French Alsatian dish, beef de la Carbonne with steamed turnup, plus....for you 2..Romance whisky..the very hub of romance, it is a strong whisky..'

' Hi we're the ambulance 🚑 team, emergency job. A Mr Periwinkle phoned from this address said an old man is struggling. '

' I am ..Major General Oliver Carpet burns Flowers, and I called. What we have here is a sign of our terrible times..2 overrated, overfed, wishy washy cat adoring..communists, letting their old father rot in penury due to....

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complete neglect and abuse. I could tell you stories that would make your toenails stand on end and your hair curdle!' He sighed pathetically, 'Impia iuventus est hodie.'
Medic Felix Nightshade, 42, from Barking, gave him a long, impassive look. 'Could I just have a quiet word? Are you his son, sir?'
'Good lord, no!' I shuddered. 'Heaven forbid! Rosie here's his daughter, patience of a saint, this girl.'
He took Rosie aside and chatted for some time, the upshot  was ...

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that the best thing for her father was rest and recuperative measures, how's his social life? Any hobbies? ' None aside from bothering us..and philandering", beamed Rosie, 'I guess we can set him some dating club meets , that ought to be fun...it's his birthday in 8 days and how swell it would...

[poppy]

be if he had a lady friend to share it with.'
'It'd get the old fart out of our hair, anyway!' Rosie gave me a reproving look. 'Well, I'm just thinking of you, my love, and Daddy, of course. What about one of those speed dating thingies? He could meet a whole lot of eligible old dames ... hopefully loaded.'
So we booked him in. He dressed in what he considered the pinnacle of fashion, though which era had climbed to such appalling heights was anyone's guess. He wore a loud plaid suit in a bilious shade of mustard, an orange bowtie and topped it all off with a bowler, that had seen better days. 
However, feeling he looked snappily dressed and exuding confidence he swaggered off, twirling his cane.
The first lady he met ...

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Ilga Sturmbahn, 42, a hairdresser from Leipzig.

In UK on business, can you, she mused, perhaps do a video chat whilst I am in Hilton , Manchester. The major opted for caution, demanding pictures. So, one autumnal morn, he opened up the laptop and

[PYX]

He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but he felt that this morning could be a turning point. A message from Ilga Sturmban, a hairdresser from Leipzig, appeared on the screen. 

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Her message read ...
'Darling Reggie,
 I am chumping on the bat, in the making of our acquaintances. I feel deep connection to your esteemed self. You send 1200 euros to Ilga Sturmbahn, Sterling Bank of Nigeria 066-666-666 and I fly to your side, with great hasten.
Your ever loved 
Ilga'

Attached was a photo of a buxom, well upholstered blonde dressed in a traditional German dirndl.
'Just my kind of gal!' chortled the Major.
He immediately...

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did a quick check on the old bank balance, what what, 'by Jove, I still have quarter of a million..well..here goes.. '

Drrrrring....drrring...

'Allo?'

'Hehe he.. oh you little blighter..what are you wear...'

'Who the bladdy ells vis? You bladdy perv, am calling veowd Bill', chimed a male Cockney voice. It hadn't exactly 

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gone the way the Major was hoping. 
'I wish to speak to my Ilga, my inamorata.  This is the number that was disclosed to me!'
'Watchu want with me 'ilda, you sicko? Callin' 'er yer tomata! I gotcha number! Bladdy geezers like you want their knackers ...'
The Major hung up, rather shaken. Although not comprehending much of what the man was saying, his tone made it quite clear that ...