Trapped in the Tandoori
by 
scamp
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Posted: 16 April 2006 Word Count: 2689 Summary: Thanks for all your comments on 'The Worst Case Scenario' I thought I'd seek your views on my latest indigestion. Any thoughts appreciated and Becca, thanks for the welcome to the group |
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Trapped in the Tandoori
‘Bloody phone,’ Ian cursed. He had meant to recharge the battery. Of course it couldn’t have run out before Jean’s text came through, could it? That would teach him to be helpful. In answer to his -
‘Any shopping?’ text message. he’d got -
‘Yes please. Cards for a two-year old girl and a four-year old boy. A Confirmation card for Ross. Birthday cards NOT FUNNY for Alan and Col. A nice one for Mum, and a New Home card. Ta.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Why couldn’t she just get a stock of basic, blank cards in rather than faff around for each specific occasion. These card shops just saw her coming. Ian was sure you could now get a pricey, huge, glossy one congratulating you on your recovery from diarrhoea. So much for his nice day out in Inverness. He already had her list of fancy food provisions from Marksies for the Easter Sunday’s special lunch. And the multi-vites and anti-oxidants from Boots, whatever the hell they were. Fair enough, living over in a croft in Wester Ross, they had to take advantage of trips to the exciting glitter of the metropolis of Inverness, but he had caught the bus to come to the bloody dentist! Now he would have to wander aimlessly round the shops in typical male style approaching the most attractive female assistant to ask for help.
Chores completed, great. Time for teeth!
In the waiting-room he supposed he was getting to be one of the tiny minority to go to the dentist to have ancient fillings re-drilled. Every-one else seemed to be attending some sort of beauty parlour for whitening, straightening or capping already perfect dentures. The capping, if they could afford it, with rows of diamonds or cairngorms. Could anyone explain another puzzle? Why, when they’ve crammed your mouth with drills, drains and sponges, do they keep talking away to you? This one was really attractive but kept involving Ian in her conversation with the young assistant. About her holiday, the weather and last night’s carry-out curry. Then, as she filled his mouth with probing, rubberised hands and drilled, poked and grinded, she joked about ‘how Mr MacMillan will never come to see us again, all the terrible things you we’re doing to him.’ Don’t they realise how difficult it is to concentrate on sexual fantasies about dangling blonde tresses, rubber gloves and white uniforms with all this going on?
Ian didn’t know if it was the patter about the carry-out, or when she said -
“I’d avoid eating on the left side of the mouth for an hour or so”
But, numb-mouthed, he suddenly had an over-whelming, ravenous urge for lunch and scurried off down the lane to the Rajah. The pint of lager was cool and delicious. Ian reckoned that he would have one to remove the last bits of toothy detritus while ordering and eating his Onion Bhajia - on the right side only, of course.
Then, maybe have another with his Chicken Pasanda, by which time the hour would nearly be up and he could revert to non, lop-sided eating. Isn’t it weird, drinking, with feeling only in 2/3rds of your mouth? Not knowing if golden liquid is dribbling down the left side of your chin. Ian took ages to his meal and the crossword. By the time he had finished, the restaurant, which had been full of happy Easter holiday makers, all squeezing into the time slot for the 3 course,
£5.99, Business Lunch Special, was nearly empty.
“Ice cream or a coffee Sir?”
“No thanks, better not.”
By the time Ian had put his jacket on and packed away his bits and pieces, all the restaurant staff were gathered like wedding guests waiting to see the bride off. He was the last diner to leave. There they were, all grouped up in the wee lounge by the till. The manager, black-clad, svelte. The smiling, epaulleted, white-jacketed waiters. The aproned chefs and stained overalled underlings. He did not remember ever being given such a send -off. Maybe there was an important cricket game on, or a new Bollywood epic.
Ian paid, tipped handsomely enough for smiles to widen, then went up the stairs to leave. At the door he hesitated as his bowels murmured a hello. So he went back down into the Gents toilet in the hall and entered the cubicle. As he sat, reflecting on momentous things and the meaning of life, he heard two staff enter, make a desultory check, then leave. Just as he was finishing his toilette, the lights went off!
Too embarrassed to call out, he hurriedly finished, tidied himself, and went out. The restaurant was in pitch darkness. Feeling a complete idiot, he called out -
“Hello, anyone there?” Silence.
There was just a pale glimmer of daylight around the rim of the door at the top of the stairs, but when he moved to climb, he walked right into a metal security grill at the foot. No matter how he tugged and pulled, it fulfilled its function.
‘Damn it to hell.’ He tried his phone but it was as dead as the tomb. He tried the light switches -nothing, they must turn off the main switch as a precaution.
In the dark, with hands out-stretched, he fumbled his way around the ground floor. No point going into the restaurant on the right he thought, there were no windows. Ah, the phone on the bar. Again, he met a metal security grill. Feeling even more of a total twat he found his way through the swing doors into the redolent kitchen.
Banging himself painfully on the sharp edges of the stainless-steel serving counters, Ian made his way to the faint light from around the back door. Not only was it, also, securely locked, but he remembered that the place backed onto a small, enclosed, delivery-courtyard which would be at the top of a flight of stone steps. There was just no prospect of anyone hearing him, unless they were making a delivery, and he would hear that.
‘What a bloody mess.’ Oh well, it was now just after 3, and the Rajah opened again at 6. So there was bound to be someone opening up in about 2 1/2 hours. He’d just have to suffer the huge embarrassment of being found. At least it would give the staff a good laugh, perhaps enough to lighten up their work, cooking and serving curries, for a while. He would miss the last bus but Jean would not be expecting him home till 7 30. So he’d have plenty of time to phone her and have a few restorative drams before finding a B & B for the night. He thought he’d miss out on another curry!
Ian placed his bulging knapsack on the leather settee in the lounge. The M& S turkey would make an adequate, if somewhat chilled, pillow. Huddled into his jacket, he lay down to wait. It had been an early morning start to catch the bus so, that, combined with the beer and nerves, he was soon in a deep slumber. He woke feeling cold. The restaurant was still in black silence. He looked at his replica Swiss army watch. The luminous hands said 19 42!
‘What the hell was going on? Where were they?’
He decided to carry out a thorough search of the kitchen area. At the cooker he tried the main switch. To his delight a spark-igniter sent a gas-ring roaring. Great, the place was gas fuelled and they had not turned it off. He turned all the rings full on until the kitchen was glowing with welcome heat. Now to find some form of taper to search the premises. Over by the waiter’s hatch there were pads of menus that would do fine. As he leant for one he noticed a small stack of leaflets, obviously there to be handed out to customers.
With mounting incredulity he read -
Dear Customers
We are sorry to advise you that the Rajah will be closed over this Easter Weekend, from Wednesday afternoon until next Thursday, the 20th April. This year is a very special year for us. We are all going back to our homelands to join in the celebrations of the God Shriva who was born 1,500 years ago, this coming Saturday. It is a time to be with our families which we are sure you will understand, as you join with yours for Easter. This is the first time the restaurant has closed since we opened 9 years ago so we are very confident that you will bear with us.
The management and staff would all like to wish you a very happy Easter holiday and we will look forward to seeing you when we open for business as usual next week.
Thank you and best wishes,
Your friends at the Rajah.
‘Bloody shit!’ Ian took one of the largest, cast-iron cooking pots and hurled it over and over again at the entry security screen. It was still to no avail. Not even a dent and the crashing, clattering racket did not attract anyone outside.
‘What the hell to do now?’
‘Wait a minute, the grill to the till and more importantly the bar telephone, looked a bit more flimsy.’ He shouted with delight as, at the 4th attempt, the pot crashed through the barrier. He folded the rest aside, roughly, and climbed through.
“Hello, Hello,” Ian jiggled the phone button furiously, but nothing, nada. They’d even cut the phone off. He reached forward, filled a crystal glass nearly up to its rim with Glen Ord single malt, added a splash of water and sat back on the manager’s swing armchair, pondering. By the 3rd glass he was starting to see the funny side of things.
This story would be told and retold for the rest of his life. There might even be a book in it. Certainly it deserved a slot on ‘Richard and Judy.’ But, what about Jean? She’d be worried sick. He had to think of something. How about a lie down, get some shut-eye, and wake with a clearer head to think things through. He’d been a successful business-man. He was no slouch at coming up with innovative ideas. From the linen cupboard, he carried two large piles of fresh, white, table-cloths through to his old friend, the leather settee.
One pile formed a much more comfortable pillow than his turkey. The other, in layers, made up a cosy, multi-sheeted bed. He pulled the coffee table over, placed a bowl of spiced nuts by the water jug beside the second bottle of malt whisky, sipped, and fell into a deep sleep.
4 42am The kitchen looked like a scene from the pits of hell. The naked figure pranced around stirring the vast cooking pots with one hand, raising the 3rd bottle of whisky for another glug with the other. Ian no longer added water. He just poured jug after jug over his head as the hot fumes from the tubs of spices, cooking-oil and ghee pillowed up into the air-hoods which led to the extractor vents. He guffawed and giggled in drunken laughter as he opened and closed the air flaps to the rhythm of his demented singing.
“Easijet 423 to Control, come in please. Over”
“Roger E423. Receiving you loud and clear. What can we do for you this fine morning? Over”
“423 to Control. We are seeing a very unusual plume of coloured smoke rising from the centre of Inverness. It looks like a smoke signal as in some old cowboy movie but the rising column of smoke-puffs seems to be bright red! Over.”
“ Roger 423. Thanks. That should certainly brighten up someone’s morning. I’ll call the services now. Over and out.”
The lane behind the Post Office was packed . The crowds pushed to peer over the taped barriers as the three firemen carried out a stretchered body in a cloud of coloured smoke as if it was some kind of illusionist’s act. The paramedics wheeled the stretcher on and leapt aboard as the clanging ambulance sped through the morning traffic to Raigmore Hospital. The crisis team hurried forward to offload their patient and ran with him to emergency resuscitation.
Jean dashed into the intensive care room with the Nursing sister. Ian lay supine, completely mummified in white bandages under the white sheets. Drains, feed-tubes and dangling instruments were connected to clicking, humming, bleeping machines. There was a steady pump/wheeze from the bellows attached to his oxygen mask - the only hint of life.
A green-overalled surgeon entered with two casualty nurses and a stethoscoped intern.
“Mrs MacMillan, glad you’re here, I’m Mr. Varma.”
“How is he?”
“The good news is that I expect him to make a full recovery, back to his previous health. Don’t be alarmed by all the equipment, most are just monitors . We are replacing all the fumes in his lungs with fresh air. Please don’t be worried, he’s going to be fine.”
“Oh thank God, Doctor. I thought I’d lost him. Wait a minute, you said - the good news- is there bad?”
“Well I’m sorry to have to tell you Mrs MacMillan, that your husband will never be the same man again. You see, he took all his clothes off to cope with the heat as he cooked the spices and they’ve impregnated his skin.”
“What do you mean?”
The doctor took a pair of surgical scissors, pulled back the sheet, and neatly cut through the bandages around Ian’s waist. As he gently pulled them away Jean and the nurses gasped as strip after strip of gleaming red flesh was revealed.
“But that will wash off and fade with time surely Doctor?”
“I’m afraid not. You see he was in these fumes so long that his flesh is effectively cooked. Mrs MacMillan, your husband has been Tandooried!”
Jean didn’t hit her head too badly as she fainted and slid onto the disinfected floor. At least she was in the right place!
Three months later, Margaret looked up from practising her golf swing on her lawn at the loud clatter of an approaching helicopter. The Bell-Ranger, Executive Pro-jet landed in a cloud of grass and heather fragments in Ian and Jean’s field in the croft next door. Margaret watched from the wire fence as the pilot, waited until the rotors slowed, then climbed down, unfolded the steps and opened the passenger door. Archie’s pipes skirled a welcome as he led the household staff, the uniformed servants and neatly aproned maids, to form a line by the door.
They laughed and clapped as Jean appeared, smiling, in a sapphire-blue, billowing, Versace dress. The huge diamond necklace gleamed rainbows against her Caribbean sun-tan. Old Egbert, the butler, held out his arm and guided her to the waiting Rolls. Then, how they cheered as Ian, in a brilliant white silk suit which, with the navy-blue, silk shirt, combined to form a patriotic Union Jack ensemble against his glowing red skin.
Amazing. Who could have believed the reversal of their fortunes. To think that it was only a short time ago that the ‘Courier’s’ headlines blazed -
‘Wester Ross Man Badly Burnt in Inverness Curry Shop’
It really had been very clever of Ian to think of approaching the Marketing Director of ‘GlobeTalk’ - the world’s largest cell-phone operator. Margaret still couldn’t resist a giggle at their latest TV Advert. This showed a white-hooded and gowned monk climbing into a straw basket, to be hoisted on a rope, up, against a backcloth of stunning Mediterranean scenery, to the monastery on the cliff-top far above. The camera then zoomed in as Ian removed the hood and said -
‘This is what can happen if you don’t look after your GlobeTalk phone folks’
Margaret turned away as the entourage entered the mansion next door. She was by far not the only one to feel a bit envious of their recently acquired fortune. ‘Lucky Buggers.’
‘But sleeping with that smell - Ugh!’
Ian MacMillan
2,690 words
‘Bloody phone,’ Ian cursed. He had meant to recharge the battery. Of course it couldn’t have run out before Jean’s text came through, could it? That would teach him to be helpful. In answer to his -
‘Any shopping?’ text message. he’d got -
‘Yes please. Cards for a two-year old girl and a four-year old boy. A Confirmation card for Ross. Birthday cards NOT FUNNY for Alan and Col. A nice one for Mum, and a New Home card. Ta.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Why couldn’t she just get a stock of basic, blank cards in rather than faff around for each specific occasion. These card shops just saw her coming. Ian was sure you could now get a pricey, huge, glossy one congratulating you on your recovery from diarrhoea. So much for his nice day out in Inverness. He already had her list of fancy food provisions from Marksies for the Easter Sunday’s special lunch. And the multi-vites and anti-oxidants from Boots, whatever the hell they were. Fair enough, living over in a croft in Wester Ross, they had to take advantage of trips to the exciting glitter of the metropolis of Inverness, but he had caught the bus to come to the bloody dentist! Now he would have to wander aimlessly round the shops in typical male style approaching the most attractive female assistant to ask for help.
Chores completed, great. Time for teeth!
In the waiting-room he supposed he was getting to be one of the tiny minority to go to the dentist to have ancient fillings re-drilled. Every-one else seemed to be attending some sort of beauty parlour for whitening, straightening or capping already perfect dentures. The capping, if they could afford it, with rows of diamonds or cairngorms. Could anyone explain another puzzle? Why, when they’ve crammed your mouth with drills, drains and sponges, do they keep talking away to you? This one was really attractive but kept involving Ian in her conversation with the young assistant. About her holiday, the weather and last night’s carry-out curry. Then, as she filled his mouth with probing, rubberised hands and drilled, poked and grinded, she joked about ‘how Mr MacMillan will never come to see us again, all the terrible things you we’re doing to him.’ Don’t they realise how difficult it is to concentrate on sexual fantasies about dangling blonde tresses, rubber gloves and white uniforms with all this going on?
Ian didn’t know if it was the patter about the carry-out, or when she said -
“I’d avoid eating on the left side of the mouth for an hour or so”
But, numb-mouthed, he suddenly had an over-whelming, ravenous urge for lunch and scurried off down the lane to the Rajah. The pint of lager was cool and delicious. Ian reckoned that he would have one to remove the last bits of toothy detritus while ordering and eating his Onion Bhajia - on the right side only, of course.
Then, maybe have another with his Chicken Pasanda, by which time the hour would nearly be up and he could revert to non, lop-sided eating. Isn’t it weird, drinking, with feeling only in 2/3rds of your mouth? Not knowing if golden liquid is dribbling down the left side of your chin. Ian took ages to his meal and the crossword. By the time he had finished, the restaurant, which had been full of happy Easter holiday makers, all squeezing into the time slot for the 3 course,
£5.99, Business Lunch Special, was nearly empty.
“Ice cream or a coffee Sir?”
“No thanks, better not.”
By the time Ian had put his jacket on and packed away his bits and pieces, all the restaurant staff were gathered like wedding guests waiting to see the bride off. He was the last diner to leave. There they were, all grouped up in the wee lounge by the till. The manager, black-clad, svelte. The smiling, epaulleted, white-jacketed waiters. The aproned chefs and stained overalled underlings. He did not remember ever being given such a send -off. Maybe there was an important cricket game on, or a new Bollywood epic.
Ian paid, tipped handsomely enough for smiles to widen, then went up the stairs to leave. At the door he hesitated as his bowels murmured a hello. So he went back down into the Gents toilet in the hall and entered the cubicle. As he sat, reflecting on momentous things and the meaning of life, he heard two staff enter, make a desultory check, then leave. Just as he was finishing his toilette, the lights went off!
Too embarrassed to call out, he hurriedly finished, tidied himself, and went out. The restaurant was in pitch darkness. Feeling a complete idiot, he called out -
“Hello, anyone there?” Silence.
There was just a pale glimmer of daylight around the rim of the door at the top of the stairs, but when he moved to climb, he walked right into a metal security grill at the foot. No matter how he tugged and pulled, it fulfilled its function.
‘Damn it to hell.’ He tried his phone but it was as dead as the tomb. He tried the light switches -nothing, they must turn off the main switch as a precaution.
In the dark, with hands out-stretched, he fumbled his way around the ground floor. No point going into the restaurant on the right he thought, there were no windows. Ah, the phone on the bar. Again, he met a metal security grill. Feeling even more of a total twat he found his way through the swing doors into the redolent kitchen.
Banging himself painfully on the sharp edges of the stainless-steel serving counters, Ian made his way to the faint light from around the back door. Not only was it, also, securely locked, but he remembered that the place backed onto a small, enclosed, delivery-courtyard which would be at the top of a flight of stone steps. There was just no prospect of anyone hearing him, unless they were making a delivery, and he would hear that.
‘What a bloody mess.’ Oh well, it was now just after 3, and the Rajah opened again at 6. So there was bound to be someone opening up in about 2 1/2 hours. He’d just have to suffer the huge embarrassment of being found. At least it would give the staff a good laugh, perhaps enough to lighten up their work, cooking and serving curries, for a while. He would miss the last bus but Jean would not be expecting him home till 7 30. So he’d have plenty of time to phone her and have a few restorative drams before finding a B & B for the night. He thought he’d miss out on another curry!
Ian placed his bulging knapsack on the leather settee in the lounge. The M& S turkey would make an adequate, if somewhat chilled, pillow. Huddled into his jacket, he lay down to wait. It had been an early morning start to catch the bus so, that, combined with the beer and nerves, he was soon in a deep slumber. He woke feeling cold. The restaurant was still in black silence. He looked at his replica Swiss army watch. The luminous hands said 19 42!
‘What the hell was going on? Where were they?’
He decided to carry out a thorough search of the kitchen area. At the cooker he tried the main switch. To his delight a spark-igniter sent a gas-ring roaring. Great, the place was gas fuelled and they had not turned it off. He turned all the rings full on until the kitchen was glowing with welcome heat. Now to find some form of taper to search the premises. Over by the waiter’s hatch there were pads of menus that would do fine. As he leant for one he noticed a small stack of leaflets, obviously there to be handed out to customers.
With mounting incredulity he read -
Dear Customers
We are sorry to advise you that the Rajah will be closed over this Easter Weekend, from Wednesday afternoon until next Thursday, the 20th April. This year is a very special year for us. We are all going back to our homelands to join in the celebrations of the God Shriva who was born 1,500 years ago, this coming Saturday. It is a time to be with our families which we are sure you will understand, as you join with yours for Easter. This is the first time the restaurant has closed since we opened 9 years ago so we are very confident that you will bear with us.
The management and staff would all like to wish you a very happy Easter holiday and we will look forward to seeing you when we open for business as usual next week.
Thank you and best wishes,
Your friends at the Rajah.
‘Bloody shit!’ Ian took one of the largest, cast-iron cooking pots and hurled it over and over again at the entry security screen. It was still to no avail. Not even a dent and the crashing, clattering racket did not attract anyone outside.
‘What the hell to do now?’
‘Wait a minute, the grill to the till and more importantly the bar telephone, looked a bit more flimsy.’ He shouted with delight as, at the 4th attempt, the pot crashed through the barrier. He folded the rest aside, roughly, and climbed through.
“Hello, Hello,” Ian jiggled the phone button furiously, but nothing, nada. They’d even cut the phone off. He reached forward, filled a crystal glass nearly up to its rim with Glen Ord single malt, added a splash of water and sat back on the manager’s swing armchair, pondering. By the 3rd glass he was starting to see the funny side of things.
This story would be told and retold for the rest of his life. There might even be a book in it. Certainly it deserved a slot on ‘Richard and Judy.’ But, what about Jean? She’d be worried sick. He had to think of something. How about a lie down, get some shut-eye, and wake with a clearer head to think things through. He’d been a successful business-man. He was no slouch at coming up with innovative ideas. From the linen cupboard, he carried two large piles of fresh, white, table-cloths through to his old friend, the leather settee.
One pile formed a much more comfortable pillow than his turkey. The other, in layers, made up a cosy, multi-sheeted bed. He pulled the coffee table over, placed a bowl of spiced nuts by the water jug beside the second bottle of malt whisky, sipped, and fell into a deep sleep.
4 42am The kitchen looked like a scene from the pits of hell. The naked figure pranced around stirring the vast cooking pots with one hand, raising the 3rd bottle of whisky for another glug with the other. Ian no longer added water. He just poured jug after jug over his head as the hot fumes from the tubs of spices, cooking-oil and ghee pillowed up into the air-hoods which led to the extractor vents. He guffawed and giggled in drunken laughter as he opened and closed the air flaps to the rhythm of his demented singing.
“Easijet 423 to Control, come in please. Over”
“Roger E423. Receiving you loud and clear. What can we do for you this fine morning? Over”
“423 to Control. We are seeing a very unusual plume of coloured smoke rising from the centre of Inverness. It looks like a smoke signal as in some old cowboy movie but the rising column of smoke-puffs seems to be bright red! Over.”
“ Roger 423. Thanks. That should certainly brighten up someone’s morning. I’ll call the services now. Over and out.”
The lane behind the Post Office was packed . The crowds pushed to peer over the taped barriers as the three firemen carried out a stretchered body in a cloud of coloured smoke as if it was some kind of illusionist’s act. The paramedics wheeled the stretcher on and leapt aboard as the clanging ambulance sped through the morning traffic to Raigmore Hospital. The crisis team hurried forward to offload their patient and ran with him to emergency resuscitation.
Jean dashed into the intensive care room with the Nursing sister. Ian lay supine, completely mummified in white bandages under the white sheets. Drains, feed-tubes and dangling instruments were connected to clicking, humming, bleeping machines. There was a steady pump/wheeze from the bellows attached to his oxygen mask - the only hint of life.
A green-overalled surgeon entered with two casualty nurses and a stethoscoped intern.
“Mrs MacMillan, glad you’re here, I’m Mr. Varma.”
“How is he?”
“The good news is that I expect him to make a full recovery, back to his previous health. Don’t be alarmed by all the equipment, most are just monitors . We are replacing all the fumes in his lungs with fresh air. Please don’t be worried, he’s going to be fine.”
“Oh thank God, Doctor. I thought I’d lost him. Wait a minute, you said - the good news- is there bad?”
“Well I’m sorry to have to tell you Mrs MacMillan, that your husband will never be the same man again. You see, he took all his clothes off to cope with the heat as he cooked the spices and they’ve impregnated his skin.”
“What do you mean?”
The doctor took a pair of surgical scissors, pulled back the sheet, and neatly cut through the bandages around Ian’s waist. As he gently pulled them away Jean and the nurses gasped as strip after strip of gleaming red flesh was revealed.
“But that will wash off and fade with time surely Doctor?”
“I’m afraid not. You see he was in these fumes so long that his flesh is effectively cooked. Mrs MacMillan, your husband has been Tandooried!”
Jean didn’t hit her head too badly as she fainted and slid onto the disinfected floor. At least she was in the right place!
Three months later, Margaret looked up from practising her golf swing on her lawn at the loud clatter of an approaching helicopter. The Bell-Ranger, Executive Pro-jet landed in a cloud of grass and heather fragments in Ian and Jean’s field in the croft next door. Margaret watched from the wire fence as the pilot, waited until the rotors slowed, then climbed down, unfolded the steps and opened the passenger door. Archie’s pipes skirled a welcome as he led the household staff, the uniformed servants and neatly aproned maids, to form a line by the door.
They laughed and clapped as Jean appeared, smiling, in a sapphire-blue, billowing, Versace dress. The huge diamond necklace gleamed rainbows against her Caribbean sun-tan. Old Egbert, the butler, held out his arm and guided her to the waiting Rolls. Then, how they cheered as Ian, in a brilliant white silk suit which, with the navy-blue, silk shirt, combined to form a patriotic Union Jack ensemble against his glowing red skin.
Amazing. Who could have believed the reversal of their fortunes. To think that it was only a short time ago that the ‘Courier’s’ headlines blazed -
‘Wester Ross Man Badly Burnt in Inverness Curry Shop’
It really had been very clever of Ian to think of approaching the Marketing Director of ‘GlobeTalk’ - the world’s largest cell-phone operator. Margaret still couldn’t resist a giggle at their latest TV Advert. This showed a white-hooded and gowned monk climbing into a straw basket, to be hoisted on a rope, up, against a backcloth of stunning Mediterranean scenery, to the monastery on the cliff-top far above. The camera then zoomed in as Ian removed the hood and said -
‘This is what can happen if you don’t look after your GlobeTalk phone folks’
Margaret turned away as the entourage entered the mansion next door. She was by far not the only one to feel a bit envious of their recently acquired fortune. ‘Lucky Buggers.’
‘But sleeping with that smell - Ugh!’
Ian MacMillan
2,690 words
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