I don't get here enough. Have to change that.

It's been a funny couple of days.

And I don’t mean Funny Ha Ha.

It probably began yesterday morning when a chunk of the roof blew off in a gale. But that’s getting a little ahead of things.

Now, I should say to anyone who’s never read my material before, that I own a Time Share. Not one of those apartments where you regret having to visit twice a year. No. The Time Share is in my Mind.

I share my brain with a fictional Private Eye who works in the 1940’s genre and is surrounded by the ‘differently alive’. Now if you think that sounds weird, you should try living with him. He gets all the fan mail, the applause and the women. I get the death threats and people complaining about my spelling.

The rest of the time, I run a little café. Nice little place which makes money… most of the time. So for about eight hours a day, six days a week I’m what you could call a ‘cook’. Nothing fancy, but I’m pretty good at it.

And that’s where the trouble started.

Last Thursday.

6:30 am.

That was when the egg wok exploded.

You see, we cook our eggs in a wok. That’s all we cook in it.

But sometimes, they just stop working. They ‘explode’. In reality that means 'The Element in The Wok Burnt out.' However in this case, it actually blew up, sending very hot oil in the rough direction of a place I'm rather fond of and would rather nothing that registers a temperature of 170 degrees anywhere near. I'm quite fond of my penis and would really rather not see it fried, sautéed nor scalded.

Consequently, without a second thought, I dropped my trousers.

Just as a young pretty blonde policewoman walked through the door.

"Well, thanks for the offer Chris." said the young pretty blonde police woman, "but I eat muff. So am I arresting you or making myself a coffee while you explain this?"

She was quote good about it. She only helped herself to two cups of coffee.



But they say these things come as triplets. I should have guessed it wouldn’t be that simple…



I bought a new Washburn Mandolin a few days ago. After discovering how much I enjoyed playing the Ukulele, I decided to give my skills with a mandolin a work out. So I bought a sweet little number from Amazon and gave it a good thrashing. Damn. It was fun.

Enough fun for me to dig out ‘The Old Cheese Grater’. Now… You’d think that when I call a Musical Instrument ‘Old Cheese Grater’ I would be giving myself a bit of a clue as to how it played. Nevertheless, I picked up Old Cheese Grater yesterday and retuned her.. Emblazoned with musical mando fever I fingered and struck a chord. Hard and heavy. Metal as fuck. Well... as metal as a mando will let you be.

That would have been a good point to remember that you play a Mandolin with a pick. Not your fingers.

My middle finger.

The one on my right hand.

The one that serves many uses. Typing being just one of them.

That finger.

It used to have a finger nail

Now it has no finger nail.

Now it is sans de nail.

Now, it bleeds and hurts like buggery.





Oh… Then I woke up today to find that the roof has blown off.

Not the whole roof. Just the bits that are stuck on either end. Those bits. The bits that keep the wind and rain out and make the roof look like its finished.

But I’m a big boy. I can deal with things like that. I get a builder to sort it.

Cue telephone call to insurance Company, who said; 'Please hold. This call is important to you, and let's face it.... Unles you happen to have a few grand in your back pocket to pay the bill, you're pretty fucked matey boy. Whatever your problem, we don’t care. We will however force you to listen to this recorded message again and again and again until you lose the will to live. Suffer you poor fool and dance to our tune. Curently we are too busy to take your telephone call. Trained swans are rubbing our bodies with Heather honey, before releasing swarms of giant butterflies who will caress our tones physiques with their feet, wings and tongues, delivering us to heights of sensual pleasure that no mere pleblian like you will ever encounter. So we have no interest in talking to you. When one of our especially trained morons is free from mixing our drinks within gold and diamond punch bowls, we may allow him to talk to you. Sweat away, and don't you dare put the phone down, because you're having an emergency, while we are having multiple orgasms.'

Click.

"Hello, My name is Kevin." came the highly Indian voice at the end of the line.

"Hello, Kevin, My name is Chris. Half my roof has blown off in a gale and I'd like to make an insurance claim please."

"Hello. My name is Kevin."

"Hello Kevin. Can I put in my insurance claim please?"

"Say ‘Please, Kevin’. For my name is Kevin. It is my real name. I do not work in a call center in India. I am not pretending to be someone from Europa by adopting a Westernised name. It is not a trick and I wish you to repect that before we go any further. My name is Kevin."

"Yes. I think we have established that your name is Kevin. Can I put in my insurance claim please?"

"I am not here to be abused sir over my choice of name that I was very careful in choosing and have registered it as my own name, having changed it by very expensive legal means a considerable number of months ago. Your use of irony is most not appreciated. It ranks alongside sarcasm as the lowest form of wit."

“Kevin, I…”

I do not appreciate you using my name for what you may feel to be comedic device. Sir. The tone of your voice implies that you do not believe my name to be Kevin, nor that it has ever been Kevin. I suspect that you believe me to be in a call centre in some major Indian city. Let me tell you that you could not be further from the truth. From this very window I can see Big Ben, The Thames, Hadrians Wall, and many other major London landmarks.”

“But Hadrians Wall is in Northumberland.”

“A common misconception. Hadrians Wall runs from London to Edinburgh directly. I can see the entire length of it from this very window, for it is a London Vista. I am so proud to be looking at my home town.”

“Kevin. I studied archaeology for five years. I lived on Hadrians Wall for twenty years.. I’ve conducted major digs around Hadrians Wall. I wrote a paper on Hadrians eclectic use of a pre-Norman Flying Buttress. I know where Hadrians Wall is.”

Scilence for a whole thirty seconds.

“It is the Other Hadrian whose wall I am looking at.”

"I'm sorry. Kevin. I just want to make an insurance claim."

"Then why did you ring the Insurance advisory line and ask to speak to Kevin?"

"I didn't. I just got transfered to you."

"I will transfer you to the Insurance claim line. Do not bother me again. I am a very busy English man."

Click.

"Don't you wish you hadn't rang now, you obnoxious little bleb of excremental mucus? Just let your world collapse around you, while we continue to siphon money from your bank account, visit your family in the night and engage them in debauchery that would boggle the mind of a perverted bestial degenerate and drain your soul, drop by drop, till you are but an empty shell. We would laugh at your piteous state, but frankly that would require too much effort. Instead, we shall simply make your day infinitely worse by playing music that you will not be able to wrench from your head, but will simultaneously forget. Music played by a talentless three year old. On a recorder. Accompanied my her tone deaf brother who has just gained Grade One in his violin. Suffer We care not.”

After ten minutes my ears began to bleed.

Click.

"Hello. My name is Kevin."