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Are we saving the orchids?
My temporary position, bordering, as Scarlet opined, on being a butler, brings novel sentences out of my working class mouth. In the fireplace in the drawing room, the radiant orchids were outshining the older, wrinkled flowers, and it was with regret that I obeyed the housekeeper's instructions to discard the lot.
Collecting the main course dishes the other day, I slow down to eavesdrop. "He's great at [throwing parties]," says one judge pointing to his neighbour. "He just invites everyone. Last time he had Ken Clarke, J--- S---, the only black English archbishop, the Headmaster of C--- Ladies College, and the deputy editor of a synonym of Observer."
They're at it again tonight, "throwing a party" by getting other people to do all the work. The main challenges will be serving people in the correct order, and maintaining a rock steady horizon line on the trays of champagne, eyeing the unsteady flutes silently conspiring to synchronise their collapse.
But after they've gone, we'll eat the same grub as them, without having to glitter. I don't envy them. I have a freedom they don't have, and if only people like me could collectivise, to that we could add considerable power.
Trina came down for the weekend. We had some of the worst amphetamine I've had for a long time, and lasted only a couple of hours at a housey-disco night which was too alcoholly and insufficiently druggie. Young people restlessly moving about on the dancefloor, bumping into us constantly, but standing still to check their phones.
A woman around our age bounded up to us. "Old people!" she exclaimed, offering her hand. She introduced us to her husband, whom she'd met in the club five years ago. "It was all e years ago, everyone bobbing about," he said. I don't associate a gentle rhythmic up and down movement with raving, except in the silent masturbation I had to practice afterwards as Trina lay asleep, the aphrodisiac qualities of the speed providing a handful of an invented, willing woman.
7 comments
Are those the Judges pants!!?
I eek my flowers out for about a month, until the last stem is in a jam jar.
Sx
Verily, they are the pants in which fateful decisions are made.
Verily! You are so funny. Really nice to play catch-up here. You are a factotum. Hope the January gig is more satisfying than ironing britches. Admittedly, that’s setting the bar kind of low.
The real question i have is… who da fuckin bloody hell irons their underwear? or worse yet makes someone else do it? Of course as long as they pay you i’d iron them and then dance around in them but that’s just me…
Oh and how i remember the days of shit blow, which usually sent everyone running to the toilet to blow shit, a common cut here in the states is baby laxative and there were some funny scenes when a bunch of wastoids were all clenching their cheeks waiting to hit the shitter and arguing over who got to go next, the joys of humanity really… and that of course reminds me of the days of as the Bad Acid King of Podunk U. where every weekend for months we’d take the world’s shittiest acid, more speed than hallucinogen… it’s a wonderful life!!!
Exactly kono – what a complete waste of time and effort. I’m almost 56 and never in half a century have I applied an iron to a pair of pants before last week.
It’s weird stuff this lot – it turns up my sex drive to abnornal heights, so there must be something in it, but it is not speed as we know it.
I remember once in Leeds at Kim’s friend’s flat we had some coke cut with laxative and I was up half the night doing the noisiest shits in Yorkshire.
This is my question - maybe why judges are generally grumpy fuckers. Starched undercrackers? WHY?
I must say, the ones I’ve been looking after this week have been most pleasant and human, and I realise now what an onerous job it must be sometimes. Well, all the time. Still don’t think they should have included their pants in the laundry though.
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