by brightonsauce

Work is in progress, do not disturb, thank you

The great author lives in a triple-decker, narrow house, shrine upon the top floor – but was not writing his drivel crap, he waved his fist out the window, at the infants, infants’ parents as they paraded away from school gates: grins, happy faces were extremely irritating in the dark street. Every evening, every day some terrible function continues, sometimes until eight o’clock at night. For three years now the author – or writer has been plagued by the rhythms of playtime, home time, lunch time. What kind of wife rents a house across the road from a school? Is she mad, or was she, rhetorical?

He paused in a haze of confusion. Which tense to utilise in draft, does it mattered, or any bodies’ concerned? No.

‘Uh, uh uh, play time darling?’ he suggested to his wife.

‘I am watching EastEnders,’ she replies.

‘Lunch time,’ he decided, steps downstairs to prepare another cheese sandwich. No man in history has prepared, consumed more cheese sandwiches than this man. How many roast beef banquets? Probably around four. Still at 45 years old he has yet to revel in the perfect roast beef banquet occasion. Just never happened, curious.

Ideally this might involve some kind of rustic venue, homestead, portly lady in apron emerges to dining area. She carries the amuse bouche course – Yorkshire pudding, pillow size, a lake of gravy, continents of batter lapped at the shoreline.

Woman wears only the pinny and pudding is very arousing in every guise. Perhaps the woman is a grandmother? Oh my god, I can’t eat this.

‘Eat it!’

‘No granny, no.’

The pillow pudding steams below my nostrils. I sit upon my stool, very slowly lap the gravy, lap lap, lap lap like a doggy.

‘Good boy,’ says granny.

‘Fank u, granny, more granny.’

Granny turns in her pinny.

‘Umm, ummm.’

She wobbles, ample bottom portions sway towards the scent cauldron: vegetables, potatoes roasted in lard lather, just all vegetable words, get on with the vegetables, beef, I need beef.

I, of course, am tethered by my ankle, chain tethered to the door. Only granny sees the cow in the kitchen, the cow’s head on the sideboard, eyes removed for gravy goodness, aside the sweetbreads, testicles and hooves. But there, roasted in the agar the size of Rutland is my beef – imagine twenty-five hundred sirloin steaks squashed together, and twenty-five hundred bones poke from the flesh.

Granny – a strong granny takes this meat, places it upon a wooden board, juices trickle across the stone floor, she totters in her heels, provides service.

‘Voila,’ she says

And I hold bowie knife, garden fork, begin to slice the slices – slices roll like tongues, and I place these pink beef wafers up on my lips, eat the beef, so tasty but so is my tongue. I chew my own tongue, swallow my tongue.

‘Grnnnnie,’ I moan.

‘Stupid boy,’ she says, mounts me, a tiny fork, delicate knife in her tiny fist, takes slices from my nose, chews nose slices on the end of her fork.

What kind of granny does this?

Despite my agony I reach for the beef joint monster, slap the hag with my meat. She is slapped to the floor, juice drips from her face. But I must remain at the banquet, I am tethered, remember. The evil woman slithers away, and I am left alone a moment, at least to consider dessert course. Then, quite ghastly, the devil grunt, the cow’s head atop her shoulders, she rushes back from the kitchen with a trifle in her hands.

FINISH UP LATER, need ending proper 🙂