Divorced and Deadly. Josephine Cox
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bells, I’ve just had a frightening thought…were they planning to do the same to me? Like creep up on me while I was asleep, and nip my pride in the bud! (Dad won the neatest bush competition last year, so he really knows his way around the garden shears.)
You probably think I’m paranoid, and you’d be right. I wouldn’t put it past them to rob me of my manhood. The thing is, they’re in their sixties now and have probably forgotten what joy it all is.
Anyway, I don’t plan to stay there long; although I have to admit, it’s a good gaff: no rent, hot meals provided, bed changed regularly, with clean shirts and underpants on hand.
I can’t help but wonder if Dad’s feeling put out, ‘You’ll be wiping his backside next!’ he snapped at Mum the other day, ‘And why is it he always bags the bathroom first?’
Huh! I can answer that…it’s because Dad has a nasty habit of leaving his false teeth on the sink after he’s washed them; it’s unnerving, seeing his false teeth grinning at me when I’m on the throne.
‘C’mon our Ben.’ That’s Mum again. ‘You’d best get off or you’ll be late.’ I argued a bit and wolfed down my hot crumpets oozing with butter and jam, while she hovered over me with a bag of goodies. ‘I’ve packed you some nice ham sandwiches,’ she cooed. ‘Oh, and there’s a bottle of Lucozade in there, it’ll keep your pecker up.’ (Does she know something I don’t?)
Well anyway, there I was, on my way up the street, swinging my goodies like a kid off to school. I wondered why she didn’t put me in short pants and get me a cap with a badge!
Then, as if things weren’t bad enough, I saw that twerp from number fourteen—Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants. I have to say, I’ve never seen such an unholy mess—long and limp with a sprout of hair on top and short trousers at the bottom; he’d be a real attraction at Madame Tussauds.
He ran as fast as he could to catch me up. ‘God! You walk fast, don’t you?’ he said, breathlessly running alongside, ‘I thought I’d never catch up!’
All the way to the bus stop he asked questions, ‘Where’s your car?’
‘It went in for a service and they’ve discovered it needs new brake pads. Hopefully, I should have it back tomorrow.’
‘Ah, well, if you ask me, it’s all a con.’
‘Is that so?’ If he doesn’t clear off soon, I swear I’d smack him one! Either that or I’d tell my mum and she’d give him what for.
‘Think about it.’ Like a dog with a bone, he is. ‘You’ve never noticed anything wrong with your brakes at all, have you?’
‘Not that I can remember, no.’
What the hell was I talking to him for? It only encouraged him.
‘There you are then!’
‘Where am I exactly?’
‘Well, like I say…you’ve been conned. There’s nothing wrong with your brakes at all.’
‘Isn’t there?’
‘No. You see, what they’ll do is whip ’em off. One of the blokes will have ’em away, and before you know it, there they are…’
‘Where are they?’ Talk about being a glutton for punishment.
‘On the stall at a car-boot sale o’ course!’
‘Really?’ No wonder he’s called Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants.
His tongue was still rattling ten to the dozen when the bus arrived. Pushing me aside, he climbed on, while I pretended to tie my shoe. When the bus pulled away Dickie started waving and yelling and telling them to stop because they’d left me behind. (Thick as a plank or what!)
The conductor was in no mood for his antics. I expect he was wondering why I was smiling after being left behind. Good man, that conductor! The thing is, I’d rather be late than sit next to Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants all the way to work.
After I’d thrown what was left of my little-boy’s lunch, I started to wonder…what was going to happen to me now? How will I get over Laura, especially as Shelley won’t have anything to do with me after all the goings on.
And how long will I have to stay at my parents’ house?
A long time I reckon, because Laura fleeced me good and proper, my Ford Focus is about to give up the ghost, and all I’ve got is a fiver in my back pocket and exactly four pounds and sixty pence in my bank account.
Still, I’ve got my magnetic looks, and I still know how to make a lady feel good.
Then I noticed a woman looking at me. She was tall and blonde with legs all the way up to her chin.
Now she’s started walking towards me! Keep calm, Ben. Play it cool…cool now. I said, ‘Hello…yes, did you want something?’ Realising I sounded like Dickie Manse, I gave her my best, whitest smile.
‘Look…’ she pointed downwards.
I looked down and saw nothing untoward, except a slight stirring.
‘Hope you don’t mind me saying…I just thought I’d tell you that your shoelaces were undone.’ She walked straight into the open arms of a man who was running up to meet her. She gave me this bemused little smile as he walked her away.
I could hear the pair of them sniggering all the way down the street. Not that I cared a toss. I didn’t fancy her anyway.
I’ve decided to look on the positive side.
What’s the worst that can happen? I mean, I can handle Dickie Manse brains-in-his-pants, a sniggering blonde, a bad divorce, stolen brake pads, clean underpants and a bottle of Lucozade to ‘keep my pecker up’.
It’ll take more than that to bring Ben Buskin to his knees.
I was determined to come out on top. Yes! Just you see if I don’t.
Hello diary, my old friend.
Well, like I’ve always said, you never know what’s round the corner. I had a couple of surprises today; both involving women of course. One was a bit unnerving, and the other positively amazing. I still don’t quite know what to make of it all.
I reckon I must have done something very wrong in a previous life, or I wouldn’t be punished the way I’m being punished now.
I arrived at the station at nine a.m., right on time. Most times the damned train is late, and other times I find myself stranded on some scary platform in the middle of nowhere! Anyway, not this time; although the train driver must have had an argument with his wife, because he was whizzing over the rails like a demented hooligan.
‘I think I’m about to be sick, dear!’ The fat woman sitting next to me had already fallen asleep on my shoulder, but it wasn’t her fault, as she had a droopy neck; or so she told me when I shook her awake.
‘You’d best sit up,’ I told her encouragingly, ‘…I’ll see if I can find the conductor.’ The last thing I wanted was to turn up for work with a jacket coated in the remains of her breakfast!
‘Give her a sick bag!’ The conductor was none too pleased, and neither was I.
‘Give her one yourself!’ I mean…you can’t let the buggers get away with it, can you?
Anyway, to cut a long story short, she got her sick bag, and I got as far away from her as I could; though she kept looking at me with a peculiar glint in her eye. ‘Sorry dear,’ I wanted to say, ‘but I’m not that desperate.’ At least, not yet! How dare she?
What’s more,