I don’t know why I still do this job. It’s certainly not what I signed up for – at least, not what I believed I’d signed up for. Okay, I get the dark suit, white shirt, neat haircut and all that garbage, but that’s not enough, is it?
Have I ever been asked to run beside the car as it goes through the city streets? I have not. Not that I’d want to for a Volvo. Roller, Bentley, Daimler, maybe even a big Jag. But a Volvo?
Another thing. Have I ever been asked whether I’d take a bullet for whoever it is I’m supposed to be looking after? I have not. Mind you, perhaps that’s as well. I’m not sure I could honestly say I would. It’s not as though I’m guarding senior royals or even senior politicians. In fairness, though, which of that lot – the politicians, not the royals, is actually worth risking your life for? It’s not as if any of them would even risk their job for the likes of you and me who put them there and pay them, is it?
No. I’m guarding what is laughingly called a celebrity. Usually, it’s a singer who can hardly get a note out without electronics, or someone who plays a game, like football or even, these days, bloody computer games. Things we all did as kids for fun, now they get stupid money and fame for doing it.
Of course, I’m bitter. I could have done something like that; we all could. It’s just being in the right place at the right time and probably having a big enough sob story to tell. Trouble is, most of us can’t do that, can we? Most of us lead ordinary lives; no major bad stuff and no major good stuff, either. Ordinary. Not that there’s anything wrong with ordinary. Without masses of ordinary people, there’d be no celebrities, would there? Who’d buy their stuff?
And how many of these people get honours and knighthoods, basically for doing tolerably well the job they’re being grossly overpaid to do in the first place.
No, this isn’t the job I expected it to be; nothing like.
And, while we’re at it, how come I don’t get a wiggly wire thing in my ear and a cufflink I can talk to?
This was written in response to Kreative Kue 223 published on this site.
Yes, Laura; I’m on my way home now.
Where am I? I’m walking across the car park, the one in front of the old Mairie – you know, the building that lost a great chunk of its render in the riots last Michaelmas.
That’s the one.
I know it’s a long way off. I’ll be as quick as I can, but it’s going to take the best part of an hour, depending on the traffic.
You’d think, wouldn’t you? Trouble is, everything they do seems to make it worse, not better. Anyway, why did you want me to call? You know what time I’m expected.
I didn’t know you had an appointment this evening; there’s nothing in our shared calendar.
Okay. What time do you expect to be back? Do I need to walk and feed the dogs?
Fine, I’ll do that. You didn’t say what time you’d be back.
What do you mean, you won’t?
You’re leaving me?
Is it something I’ve done? Something I’ve said?
Are you still there? Laura? Hello… hello…
This was written in response to Kreative Kue 222 published on this site.
“Are you sure it was here, Albert? It was a long time ago, you know.”
“As sure as I am of anything. I clearly remember bringing her out of the house and carrying her down to the garden, like it was yesterday. She was heavy, too, down all those steps.”
“And it was here, this close to the house?”
“Look, I told you she was heavy, didn’t I? I really wanted to put her down under the big oak tree at the bottom, but she was just too darned heavy for me to carry that far. I was only about eight at the time.”
“Couldn’t anyone have helped you with her?”
“Maybe, but Dad was in one of his moods at the time – you know he was sick, don’t you? He wasn’t just bad-tempered, there was something not right in his head. Doctors said he was going senile and that made him crotchety. It wasn’t the knowing he was going senile made him angry, his tempers were just one of the symptoms. They didn’t have fancy names for it back in them days. Didn’t really understand what was going on. Not like now-a-days with all these scans and such like. Anyway, that’s why he couldn’t help.”
“And your Mum?”
“Too busy looking after Dad and trying to keep him happy as well as all the work she had to do. And before you ask, I didn’t have any brothers or sisters; none that lived past five, anyway.”
“So you were an only child, effectively?”
“You cotton on quick, don’t you? I didn’t have brothers or sisters, so of course I was an only child. Queenie, our Alsation, was the only friend I had back then. Inseparable, we were.”
“And that’s what we’re looking for now? The place you buried Queenie?”
“Oh, no. We’re looking for where I buried that annoying little ginger kid I killed with that shovel over there.”
“Little… ginger… What?!”
“Well, she was asking too many questions. Got on my nerves, she did.”
“What sort of… oh, forget it. Let’s look some more.”
This was written in response to Kreative Kue 221 published on this site.