Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Page 16

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Mysterious World of Reginald Frimpton

  While we are still taking our collective thoughts off Arnold Matson’s apparitions and mind- set, I have managed to line up a real treat for any foggy day that may fall on you. I have loosely touched on part-time children’s entertainer and revered crime writer, Reginald Frimpton in earlier jottings, but the man called me late last night and invited me round for the odd vol-au-vent and chin wag.

  Reginald Frimpton, a.k.a. Felicity Grayling, is pretty much a recluse to all intents and purposes, so for me to get the nod on a one-to-one was not to be sniffed at. For reason’s few can fathom, Frimpton / Grayling has sold books by the lorry load and screenplays by the bucket-full, and yet I myself would have to describe his work as an acquired taste. Still, each to his own and all that, and my jaundiced view of his back-catalogue wasn’t going to spoil a couple of hours in his company.

  I arrived in good time and spotted Frimpton trying to round up his two pet pigs which had escaped from their grandiose mock-Georgian sty in the top field. Once thing’s had settled down and Frimpton had shown me where one of the animals had bit him, he relaxed on a sofa with a colossal port and brandy.

  I began by asking him where he gets his ideas and inspiration from.

  ‘Well, the initial spark for most of my novels tends to come from things I notice in the aisles of supermarkets,’ he explained.

  I goggled as he went on, ‘I’ll give you an example…a couple of months ago I was unpacking my shopping and I happened to notice that all the bar code numbers on the back of my mouthwash, toilet roll and pan scourer came to a total of ninety-nine.’

  ‘And that inspired you?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course it did…I drove straight back into town and bought myself a cornet with a flake in it…hahahahahahaha…no, no, no, I’m only messing…no, I’ll give you a true example…’

  It was dawning on me why journalists had given up on this bloke years ago. He glugged on his port and brandy and went on.

  ‘I’d had writers block for about two years and one morning I thought to myself, Felicity – I always call myself Felicity when I’m writing – Felicity, I said, this cannot go on. You’re torturing yourself and for what? You don’t need the money, you’ve got pots-full so stop it, stop it, stop it…Anyway, I took no notice of my inner-voice and shot down the supermarket…’

  Here we go again, I thought to myself.

  ‘So there I was, loitering with intent by the frozen peas, when all of a sudden I spotted this sign in the distance. I could see it was over by the ready-meals so I went to investigate…’ I was on the edge of my seat.

  ‘I didn’t want to blow my chance so I slowly crept up on my target…

  And there it was, right above the liver and bacon…a sign that read “Buy One, Get One Free” Well, everything clicked into place and suddenly became clear as day…’

  ‘And that’s what you called your next novel?’ I asked, tagging along.

  ‘Exactly,’ shot Reginald, choking slightly on a piece of crab meat…’The following Monday I told my publisher that the waiting was over, the new title had landed and the ideas were flowing like chip shop vinegar.’

  ‘And were they pleased; did they like the title?’ I said.

  ‘No…’ sighed Frimpton…’they told me to change it to “Blast-Off, One Grenade for Freedom.” Said it had more impact…sold three-million copies…’

  And there you have it. A potted version of a man who can safely be described as one of the luckiest souls that ever put quill to foolscap.

  I swear to you he doesn’t have a clue what he is doing and yet his fan-base grows on a daily basis. A nice enough chap, but he could well be on the back-end of the moon for all he knows. No wonder he waltzes into the part of children’s entertainer at weekends; he wouldn’t have a clue who he was otherwise. Still, he was kind enough to give me signed copies of his last ten novels and a Battenberg cake that we never got round to opening.

  ‘I always eat that stuff,’ he told me, patting me on the shoulder as I left, ‘Spurred me on to write my first million seller that did. “The Dying Prisoner of Battenberg.” Give it a read some time…’