“Got a pen and paper handy?” The man's voice at the end of the phone enquiries.
He looked around for a sign of either but none could be found. There was an old telephone directory that would be no use to man of beast because most listed would have either long switched to a mobile, left town or now be six foot under. Next to that is a large encyclopedia, because one never knows when you might need to wow random callers with facts about the world and a dictionary for when you ask ‘and how's that spelt?’ and need to double check the answer given although not much help if spelling names. Some unopened post, most likely junk mail trying to disguise itself like a chameleon with something that actually needed opening and reading, would do to write on if he could just locate something to write with.
“I'm terribly sorry, would you mind holding the line one moment please?”
“Yes of course,” came the polite reply.
Something terribly British came over him in a wave, a sense of panic and urgency where in the other man's voice there had been none. He probably cared very little at all whether it took ten seconds or ten minutes to find a pen, his hourly rate was still the same and the longer it took to locate a pen and paper the less time he had to work between now and the end of his shift. Instead our man shot off in the direction of the kitchen like he was a contestant in the Krypton Factor. His first port of call was the fruit bowl which had probably never once held a piece of fruit in it since it was crafted. He put his hand in it and swirled the contents around like he was about to draw a ball out so that Manchester United would be playing at home in the next round of the FA Cup. Still no pen, though whoever United drew it was sure to be televised. He opened the drawer underneath which housed a multitude of items that were like vampires in so much as they probably hadn't seen the light of day for more years than you could count on two hands. An old thin metal tin opener in stainless steel that looked like it couldn't open a crisp packet let alone a tin can. Bottle opener, tape measure, a box of long matches, dustcloth and a rubber. ‘If you've got a rubber in here then where's the fucking pencil?’ he thought to himself getting more annoyed by the second. An envelope of photos from the days that people still owned a camera and developed film. Dig deep enough he'd probably find an old flat camera too but still nothing to write with. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed loudly to no one but himself and slammed the drawer shut with his right hip in anger.
He held his arms out in front of him and shook his open hands in frustration like he was a 13th Century clergyman warning his flock about the dangers of the flames of hell rising up and as he did so he spotted a pen nestled randomly in the corner of a shelf. The devil looks after his own as his mother has often told him as a child when he'd been misbehaving. He picked it up and held it up triumphantly like Rafiki holding up a tiny Simba for the unseen eyes of a non-existent valley to behold upon his triumph. Rushing back to the phone he quickly picks it up to his ear and says “hello, are you still there?”
“I'm still here,” came the reply.
“Sorry about that, couldn't find a blasted pen.” He felt like regaling a list of all the useless shit he could find but thought better of it. Instead he took one of the envelopes and turned it over, then positioned it vertically and attempted a little squiggle with the pen which provides the universal answer for whether it still works or not. Answer - It didn't. He pressed harder, moved its nib back and forth faster and faster like a caveman with two sticks about to introduce fire to the mix but still no ink came. He felt a rage burn up from inside and shoot down his right arm as he threw the pen against the closet wall and heard it bounce off with a clunk. He resisted the urge to shout aloud the stream of obscenities that had reached the tip of his tongue ready to escape and instead took a deep breath in. “I am so sorry it would appear that the pen doesn't work.”
“Oh not to worry, do you want me to email the information over to you instead?”
How he stopped himself from shouting down the phone ‘why didn't you fucking say that in the first place you half witted fuck skull?’ he wasn't entirely sure. He also wasn't really sure what a fuck skull was either but he had a knack for inventing new turns of phrases when things really angered him. Feigning calmness he replied “Oh could you? Great! That would be marvelous, thank you so much and sorry to have kept you.” Provided the man on the other end with his email address and waited for the line to go dead before he smashed the receiver back into the cradle and unleashed the stream of obscenities that had all queued nicely to be let out into the wild and he picked up the junk mail and slung it in the direction that the useless pen had travelled not a half minute before.
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