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Comedy
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| Be back soon | |
| By sasquatch | ||||||||
| 20 December 2005 | ||||||||
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Mr Spoon rinsed the tea residue from the bottom of the blue and white striped mug, gave it an overall clean and then placed it upside down on his dish drainer by the sink. He pulled the curtains aside slightly and gazed out of the window, feeling that familiar sense of melancholy and loss that seemed never to quite depart these days, merely change in its severity. His eyes looked first at the twinkling stars in the night sky, then, inevitably, down and across, finding their way to the large containment unit at the far end of the garden. No, he wouldn't do this again, he'd promised both himself and his poor wife that this wouldn't happen. But, like a boat at the mercy of a strong tide he found himself once again at the back door, then stepping down onto the patio, then striding across the grass in the cold night air. He stopped at the great door, feeling a numbness in him that was not solely accountable to the cold weather, a feeling that went down to his core and one that would remain with him rain or shine. He fumbled a packet of cigarettes from his jacket and began patting down his pockets in search of mans great fire. Finding a disposable lighter he quickly lit up and inhaled deeply before blowing a huge plume of smoke, exaggerated by the low temperature, into the air. How had it come to this? he mused. How could the glorious past have moved so far behind him. Despite the bitterness he felt, he tried to remain philosophical; he didn't have much choice. It seemed the lot of late middle age was to let the youthful adventures of ones past settle into the deep chasms of nostalgia, not to allow yourself to be choked by them, not to allow them to get you by the throat and squeeze, not to allow them to hang you out to dry, to whip and flay your pitiful soul without mercy. He closed his eyes and felt the emotions come, a hot tear rolled down his cheek. His funding had been revoked some 18 years previous. Though he had partitioned long and hard to the relevant bodies to keep his commission, it had been to no avail and once the inevitable decline had gathered pace it had become apparent there was no hope. The budgets were pulled, the staff disasembled and he was forced into early redundancy followed by a quite brutal depression. The long years that followed were dark ones. The court case fell through, costing him dearly and he was forced into the shameful and undignified position at the local abattoir. Removing the key from beneath the door he inserted it into the large padlock, and with hands red from the cold, turned the lock with some difficulty. The large doors swung open and a dank and musty smell met the air. There before him it stood, silhouetted in the moonlight, the great relic of his lifes work. The familiar coned top and cyndrical centre. He could just make out the engorged 'Heinze beans' sticker on the side. He walked slowly to the machine and laid a hand gently on the side. 'oh my dear' he said softly 'my dear sweet girl'. He bit his lip as the tears began to rise once more. He knew from experience that if he didn't dam the flow he could end up in a dark dark place, and he just couldn't go back there. Reaching into the inside of his coat he removed a neatly trimmed hip flask containing a cheaply branded malt whiskey. Holding himself steadily to control his emotions he unscrewed the flask and gulped deeply on the hot nectar. the instant gratification doing something to ease this wretched pain he felt. Looking up at his spacecraft he began to sing in a low halting voice: 'weve...been..to button moon.....weve followed...mr........spoon' undone and exhausted he breaks, and wailing like a new born, falls to his knees on the cold stone ground.
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