“What's it like inside that big old brain of yours?”
"Would you like it on loan?”
“Maybe for a day but I fear my head might explode.”
“Oh. Do you really think it's that dangerous?”
“Depends on how thick your skull is I guess.”
“Are you saying I've got a thick skull?”
“Can I tap it before I answer you?”
“Can I punch you on the nose once you've done it?”
“Ahhhh.”
“Yes ahhhh!”
“Sorry.”
“And so you should be. Anyway, why do you ask?”
“Well you can be quite…how do I put this delicately? Random.”
“I think you might need to work on your delicacy. That was like watching a rhino trying to tiptoe its way through a field of daisies without squashing any. Doesn't everyone have random thoughts? Is it a bad thing?”
There followed a long thoughtful pause.
“Actually no. No it's not bad at all. I shouldn't worry. I mean I find it amusing… no that's not the word… erm, interesting, no that won't do either… fascinating. Yes, let's go with fascinating. Is that ok with you?”
“Mais oui. D’accord.”
“See there you go, why did you suddenly answer in French?”
“Parlez vous Français mon petit fleur?”
“Erm… non. Isn't fleur a flower?”
“Très bien Monsieur, très bien.”
“Why are you calling me your little flower?”
“Because I want to keep you up at night wondering about that very thing.”
“Well I'll text you at 4am if I'm still awake.”
“That's exactly what I'm hoping for.”
“Behave.”
“You started it to be fair.”
“True… So… tell me what random things have you been thinking about this morning? Preferably in a language I can I understand.”
“Well I was thinking about the Yellow Pages advert from when we were kids. The one with JR Hartley going around the bookshops asking if they had a copy of Flyfishing.”
“Oh yeah Flyfishing by JR Hartley. He finds a copy in the end. I remember that one. Why were you thinking about that?”
“Why or more pertinently what?”
“You want me to ask what don't you?”
“Do I?”
“Remind me never to play chess against you. Did you say checkmate at any stage in the last twenty seconds under your breath?”
What follows can only best be described as a classic Gallic shrug. Perhaps all that talking French is seeping through his consciousness and permeating through the end of his shoulders. Either that or he's an insufferable twat.
“Oh bollocks just say checkmate and then tell me what exactly.”
“Fine. If you wrote a book and it was published, what's the one thing you'd do with it more than any other?”
“Oh erm… is it an obvious answer?”
The look of utter disappointment suggests that's a yes.
“Look not all our brains work at 623 mph.”
“623 miles per hour. How very specific. Neurons fire way quicker than that by the way but I don't want to distract you from thinking what the obvious answer is. You just take your time.”
“Condescending twat.”
“You say the most beautiful of things. Say it to me in French.”
“Condescending twat,” came the reply in a terrible French accent met with a retaliating shake of the head and roll of the eyes.
There was definitely some element of thinking going on because his eyes were scanning upwards, flicking madly left to right desperately hoping the answer would be plucked from the drawer marked obvious or maybe in hope that if the drawer was empty then maybe it would magically fall from the sky. Hang on. Stop thinking like me… start thinking like him. What would he be thinking?
“Ohhhhhh! I think I've got it. I should be a narcissist like you.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“I'd keep a copy of it. Well if I was you probably two dozen copies but at the very minimum I'd have a copy.”
“Too fucking right you would. It's not like he was say, Polish, Czechoslovakian or Hungarian and wrote it before Nazi occupation and they tossed all the copies on a fire in case it taught people how to fish to survive. The advert makes no fucking sense. If anyone wrote a book they'd always keep a copy no matter how good or bad it was. Someone at the Yellow Pages should have told the Ad exec's this doesn't make any fucking sense. Did you just call me a narcissist?”
Check…mate.
“Me? No, not at all,” he replies lying through his teeth. “Actually you do make a good point,” comes the rather begrudging end to his reply.
“I know. I didn't need your approval. I'm not running for a job in the Oval Office.”
“Twat.”
“Not a condescending one?”
“Nope just a plain old twat. No I tell a lie you're a cock wombling twat. I hope you're up at 4am trying to figure out what that means.”
“Do you want me to text you when I've figured it out?”
“Sure why not. Why are you getting your phone out? Oh fuck off! You're about to text me aren't you? You prick. Jesus, how have we been friends all these years? More's the point, how have I never killed you?”
There's the Gallic shrug again albeit this time accompanied by a look of total and utter smugness creeping across his face.
“Fanny fart.”
“You're such a child. Do you call your wife a fanny fart?”
“Not to her face, no.”
They both chuckle.
“I'm almost afraid to ask but anything else you'd care to share?”
“Hmmmm. Actually fuck it why not. Yesterday I was trying to work out why Elton John covered the Nina Simone track Young, gifted and black.”
“Sorry what?” He replies and lets a nervous laugh escape from his left nostril. Why it came through only one he didn't know. He'd rather it didn't come from either but there you go. “Is that real? That can't be real? Elton John? White Elton John. Crocodile rocking Elton John, he of Watford Football club, I'm still standing, candle in the wind, big glasses, platform shoes fame Elton John?”
“Yuh huh. The clue was subtle I know but in case you missed it, it was when I said the words Elton and John, in that order.”
“Young, gifted and black?”
“Yes, that was the other clue. Fuck me what goes on in that head of yours?”
“Well, not much, that's the problem! Are you sure? I don't know why I'm asking you that because, well, just because.”
“With conversational skills like that, how does your good lady wife manage to keep her paws off you at night?”
“I know right. Sadly she manages remarkably well.”
“Jesus, I'm actually going to be up at 4am thinking about that one. You bastard."
"Is that cultural appropriation?”
“Are we talking about the song or your non existent sex life?" He doesnt wait for a reply. "I've no idea. It's a brave move.”
“We are talking about the same song? Young, gifted and black… Da da da dum de der de der…. Da da da dadda dalalalala.”
“Oh that's exactly how Nina Simone wrote it. Jesus fucking Christ did you hear that noise?”
“No what was it?”
“I think it might have been poor old Nina turning in her grave. Yes you Muppet. That very song. Do you know another song called young, gifted and black? Do you think it would have gotten past copyright?”
“Alright you sarcastic twat.”
“Wellll fuck me if you will say such stupid shit all the time what do you actually expect?”
“Worryingly you sound like my wife more and more each day. Why didn't you ever get married?”
“Well firstly no one would be daft enough to have me.”
“Hmmmm that is true. Secondly?”
“Why do I need a wife if all they're going to do is pick out my bad points? That's what I have you for.”
“AHH yes that is true but I'm not going to be giving you sexual favours anytime soon.”
“Oh mon Cherie, mon petit fleur!”
“Oh you can fuck right off. Right, I'm going home. I can't deal with any more of you.”
He turns on his heels and starts to walk in the other direction. “and you can stop that bloody smirking you twat!” He shouts, not bothering to turn around and check whether he's right. Unlike when it comes to his wife he knows he's right on this score. Always bloody smirking.
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