The Moisturehenge

In our marital bedroom we have a clock. It is an alarm clock. It wakes us up when asked and displays the progress of the day should either of us enter the room or rouse in the night and wonder as to the hour. It is a useful device upon which I have held some reliance but no particular emotional attachment.

It is my casual reliance on discerning the early hours in which I am finding a frustrating obstruction. My darling partner, my first wife, the girl whom I chose so many years ago as the supreme companion, she has a sense of self awareness. This is displayed in part by her desire to retain the looks we all lose as the aggressions and joys of life are worn into our hide and become amplified by the gravity of our world.

A clock and wrinkles. I never thought a time in my life would come where these two things would stand so firmly in conflict.

One of the key aspects of placing a clock in place is so as to enable a casual observer to determine time at a swift glance. To facilitate this, it is appropriate for the face of the clock to remain largely unobstructed and displayed to a wide range of vantage points within the room.

A wrinkle is, I am told, an unsightly reminder of lost youth, a denizen of evils past and must be defeated, disguised or destroyed. While I am complacent about my body’s marks of experience it seems I am alone in this. The lady of the house has potions. She scours the world, or more correctly the world’s purveyors scour her resources, to experiment with creams, lotions, powders and oils of various origin all claiming efficacy in wrinkle removal, or reduction, or calming, or shrinking or some-such. I am no vain man but I do not think that my regime of occasional facial bathing has proven to be any less efficient at dealing with wrinkles than has the produce of global scientific research as applied or implied by her potions. In a phrase, we both look our age.

The problem is, if one considers there is any veracity in the claims of the wrinkle charlatans, then one is required to practice application, rubbing, soaking and massage at specific times of the day. Regrettably a clock is not required for this timing. One simply needs to understand the intent of directions that give application times as ‘on rising’ ‘as needed’ and ‘prior to retiring’. I know of no clock that can prescribe these periods.

I guess the conflict may well not be anchored in our differences in wrinkle treatment. It may be that I am a morning person who wakes, occasionally prematurely, with a desire to know the time, while she is an evening person who relies on the alarm to awaken her from slumber. She needs to rise at varying times for work, I awake early for my day as a routine. I like to see the clock, she likes to hear the alarm.

As her potions are required to be applied at times that mainly correspond with rising or retiring, the potion pots, tubes, tubs and cartons are assembled on her bedside table. The clock is electric with a lead extending to the power point and no farther. The clock is therefore on her bedside table. The moisturehenge obscures the clock. The moisturehenge is of considerable complexity, volume, and variety. One has to say an impenetrable henge of horologic obstruction.

So, I can’t see the clock. A solution is impossible while retaining a conjugal sleeping arrangement. I worry about it and it may be causing furrows in my brow. There is no solution to that. 

Of that I am certain. 

She has proved it.

Filthy Green

A green and pleasant place. 

Brand-labelled umbrellas, some opened, others hanging at angles, all blooming from the winter-worn and drink-stained tables at the front of the pub. The locals sat, either studying their phone, as pairs locked in conversation, or as groups of friends boldly stating opinions and bias.

Old stone walls and ancient windows stood dried and transformed by the warm day. Crisp packets of sunshine drifted a welcome glare across bare shoulders and new sunglasses before softening behind a breeze to glow, appreciated but unnoticed.

Off to one side, in a corner formed between the car park wall and the front of the pub, a pair of black dogs lay beneath a table over which two middle aged blokes lent, one distraught, one feeling inept at providing advice.  Two pints sat at hand, awkwardly angled on the warped planks, a sip or two depleted but destined to join their froth-ringed predecessors gathered to the side. A forehead was pressed on bent fingers and propped by an elbow. It supported a dejected face unwilling to rise to the ruddy ale-fuelled compassion being proffered by the owner of the dogs.

A youthful trio gathered around a smarter chrome and poly-cane table, its top scattered with mixers, straws and drained glasses.   A long haired, tattooed primary school teacher wearing a rock band vest, store-frayed jeans and a vintage armband was attempting to enthral two young girls with tales of his questionable adventures. The smitten blondes were lightly disputing his claims when a junior manager arrived, removing his tie before joining them with a high five and cheek touches. A laugh burst from the trio at his greeting and again as his bottle of white wine was shared out.

At a smaller white painted wrought-iron setting, restlessly exploring the extent of its floral lead, a small white something-poo snuffled around a pair of waxed, stiletto-propped legs. Their owner wistfully surveyed the laneway.  Next to her Fendi handbag a smart wine cooler projected a corkless neck and in her hand microbubbles trailed elegantly up a long-stemmed glass.

The sounds of the town were muted in the background. From the hedgerow surrounding the pub and from the backyards of the neighbouring homes, blackbird, robin and chaffinch song penetrated the patrons' babble. A collared dove perched atop a nearby roof, cooing for its mate, then took brief flight to resettle on a For Sale sign at the front gate of the house opposite.

A dark van slid quietly to a stop at the end of the laneway and a large BMW followed, gliding to rest without disturbing the dove. No one opened a door and both vehicles remained stationary. Their engines could be heard at idle, the air-con clicking on and off sporadically.

Four sets of nervous eyes surveyed the mechanical stakeout. Conversations hung, dogs got held to shorter leashes or were gathered to lap. The van’s side door slid open and with military precision eight helmeted, Kevlar-clad, weapon carrying solid bodies sprinted in a flank towards the drinkers.

The two dogs were pulled even closer as their owner reached over to his companion. “Keep it together Keith, don’t lose it now” . The faces of the teacher and junior manager drained to ash and the fingers of the waxen-legged beauty began to frantically delete contact lists from her 'phone.

The armed group crashed through the beer garden, yelling at everyone to stay put as behind them the BMW doors swung open and four even more heavily padded warriors burst out. Two ran to the rear of the For Sale property and the remaining two, the largest hefting an impact ram, smashed down the front door screaming "NO ONE MOVE!". Rapid shots were exchanged with flashes lighting up the feature windows of the 1940’s house. Half of the soldiers controlling the beer garden instantly broke formation and sprinted towards the house, the four remaining yelled at the patrons to keep their heads down.

The fracas abated quickly, a large covered truck sped up the lane and reversed into the front yard of the house. Three people, two bleeding from head wounds were bundled roughly out through the front door of the house and into the truck. The sound of steel doors being slammed inside the truck echoed around the beer garden. A lifeless form, smashed and spilling gore was dragged onto the front lawn, covered and lifted unceremoniously into the back of the truck. The rear door slammed and the truck moved off.

The four soldiers left on guard in the beer garden ensured the patrons remained low. From behind the wheel of the van slid an authoritative figure. She calmly approached the house, spoke to the guards at the door, glanced at the departing truck and made her way to the beer garden. Addressing the patrons she apologised for the trauma caused, explained the matter had been well planned and the outcome was expected.  With a hard smile she proffered that every caution had been taken to ensure their safety. Directing the soldiers in the distribution of cards she asked the patrons to contact the numbers listed for a de-brief the next day. With the identical precision of their arrival, all but two armed bodies returned to the vehicles and departed the scene. The two remaining soldiers stood brutish and helmeted outside the For Sale house.

Normality did not return easily to the beer garden. The paedophile and the corporate fraudster tried vainly to recover the earlier bonhomie with the frightened girls. The murderer downed his beer in a swallow, his distraught expression compounded now by confused relief. The Russian S&M madam lowered her fluffy dog to the ground and calmly dialled the elected member to defer their liaison.

Such a filthy little town in a green and deceptively pleasant land.