I've just put yet more topsoil on my front garden, to replace that which I replaced last autumn, last summer and last spring. I wonder where it goes. I'm almost tempted to wait up one night, peering round the curtains to see the little topsoil pixies making off with my garden. It hasn't run off with the rain so where is it? I suppose it could have run off to topsoil heaven.
See, I'm slowly becoming unhinged.
I'm at that stage in Sod's Law, my newest tome where I beginning to worry about what I'll put in it to make up the numbers. It always happens to me, but finally I'll get over it and just write. Then as usual I'll easily cover my 100k minimum. I don't know why I set myself that particular figure but I feel comfortable with it.
In that vein, here's the final snippet of Arnold Pratt's life until I finish the book.
It was in this position and unknown time later that his mildly erotic dream was disturbed by a strident voice announcing that his genitals were rotting. Damn, that was the third time his alleged daughter had changed his ring tone without him knowing.
‘Is that you, Pratt?’
He knew who the caller was even though it was withheld as usual. The barking voice, always close to fury and as usual scornful and condescending waited, demanding his usual servile response. Arnold lived for the day that this man might say please or thank you, but had long given up that forlorn hope.
‘Need you in early. Got to leave town. Pay you extra. Seven. Don't be late.’
Arnold had never heard him use sentences containing more than four words, either but cared little for that. With a loud click the line was cut and with a groan Arnold readied himself for action. And getting up really was action these days. In two years since this new arrangement, vis a vis his working practise had taken shape he’d gained nearly two stone onto an already impressive fourteen which was eight kilos as his daughter might say in one of her rare lucid moments.
‘Who was that?’ His wife lumbered into the room, her belligerence preceding her like a tidal wave.
‘The Shouty man,’ Arnold said finally lumbering to his feet. The name coined by his daughter after answering his phone and immediately slamming it down but only after telling his part time boss to get stuffed. Luckily his client had believed it to be a wrong number and not given him the sack; or perhaps he was accustomed to being addressed in such a manner.
‘Oh, Corporal gruntfuttocks.’ It was becoming increasingly difficult to identify his separate bosses seeing as how both his daughter and wife had elected to give them all different names. ‘I don't know why you keep working for him,’ said Doris following him upstairs with another barrage of accusations as to both his sanity and legal status.
‘Because he pays the bills,’ Arnold finally tired of her as he climbed into his least wrinkled suit and prepared to leave.