Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Page 10
Chapter Ten
An Edith Sunday
To my mind, Edith Moseley and Sunday have one thing in common.
I find them both extremely difficult to deal with…
A genius, whose moniker for the moment escapes me and therefore shall remain nameless, once said that it is only around 4.00 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon when a man finds out who he truly is. I know exactly where that boy is coming from. Sunday morning, around the hours of nine and ten, must go down as a couple of the most agreeable and tranquil time passages of my creaking week; but come Sunday afternoon you would think that some garage mechanic has broken into my homestead and let all the air out of my personality’s tyres. The world may be spinning but at that time of the day it feels as though the big bus driver in the sky has gone straight past me at the terminus and I will just have to tough it out until he comes round again to pick me up on a Monday morning. I digress…
Edith Moseley resides in Linctus Avenue. She worked as the local postmistress from around the beginning of the Crimean War until the early 90’s and it is no exaggeration to say that a sizeable percentage of the local inhabitants breathed a noticeable sigh of relief when she finally waved cheerio to her date stamp and slithered into retirement. I have always thought she missed her true vocation in life; she could easily have gone on to be a lion tamer or tank commander or some such, and though it would be unnecessarily cruel of me to say that Edith is no oil painting, I don’t think it is beyond the realms of possibility that if St. Disinfectant’s church had ever lost one if its Gargoyles over the passing years, Edith Moseley could have been called upon to sit up there on one of those crumbling ledges as a more than adequate replacement. The woman simply puts the fear of Bob into people.
Unsurprisingly, she has never married, although (and I find this difficult to believe even though I see the words before me), there was a man for a time. If memory serves, his name was Maurice Ogglesby, and he held a fairly responsible position at the water board. I once said hello to him as he removed his bicycle clips before venturing up Edith’s driveway gravel and it struck me there and then that he had the expression of a man who is about to take his final stroll before being strapped into the electric chair.
I have to say that I retain a strange admiration for people like Edith Moseley, ostensibly because it requires an incredible inner strength and dedication to maintain the high levels of hatred and revulsion that she exudes every single waking day of her existence. We shall now cut to the mustard…
If you have been paying any sort of attention, you will cheerfully recall that the slightly peculiar Harold Garstang is currently calling up a few troops to rally round and enjoy an evening in the company of Arnold Matson next Wednesday evening. What then, possessed the silly old sausage to ring up Edith Moseley to enquire if she would like to tag along? Some kind of brain-fever has clearly swept over the man. The bottom line is, Harold and Edith were at school together, back in the days when pieces of slate were handed round to kids in mud huts. Suffice to say, they go back a long way and old Harold, bless his bellybutton, has, for reasons unknown, always had a soft spot for Edith. Indeed, he is just about the only bloke I can think of who she hasn’t chewed lumps off. Anyway, the upshot is she accepted his invitation, but what her presence and personality will do to a man in Arnold Matson’s current condition does not bear thinking about.
Apparently, at any one moment, there are a hundred thousand people suspended over the Atlantic in some form of aircraft. Many of them have seeds, insects and more in their turn-ups or their luggage. Other creatures travel in soil or crates and I believe that those nice chappies in the United States Customs Service intercept three thousand species of potential pest each year. While it’s not exactly on the same scale, next Wednesday, at The Field of Corncrakes public house, a veritable cornucopia of fruitcakes and individuals descend upon the mixed-up, lopsided world of Arnold Matson. If there are any would-be or indeed, practicing psychoanalysts out there amongst you, it would be lovely if could tag along…be sure to bring your pesticide.