Tag Archives: gaff-rig

Blind helping the blind.

Posted on by

'Blind' Dog - fraudster

On a walk, if there are no hares to chase, Scooter amuses himself by provoking bulls and then stands behind me for protection when things turn nasty. I’ve saved him from drowning; stopped him from trying to eat an Adder, twice; and carried him in my arms back down from the upper branches of a tree, where he felt certain a squirrel lived …and what thanks do I get? He tip-toes upstairs at 3am, pulls me from my bed to the floor, asleep, then hops up into the warmth of the new vacancy.

A couple of months ago he got me banned from Falmouth, in Cornwall.

Walking with him down the High Street, I was hoping to get him back to our friends’ garden – with whom we were staying – before he could defecate. Linda’s better prepared than I am and always carries a pocketful of plastic bags so that she can poop and scoop. Well – so that she can scoop, - I think even she would draw the line at performing both jobs.

Anyway Scooter suddenly did that little dance with his back legs which lets you know you’ve got less than a second to drag him to a gutter. I must have dragged him pretty fast because I noticed little puffs of smoke coming from the pads of his feet as our wills battled it out.  Whilst he performed I stood there patting my pockets pretending to look for a bag I knew I didn’t have; and on finding that I didn’t have it, feigned confusion and wonder about what I would do next. Suddenly something caught my eye.

In an alleyway leading off the High Street there was one of those newspaper-round canvas bags which paper-boys dump when they can’t be arsed to deliver their papers – but this one (ideally for my purpose) was mounted on a frame and wheels (leading me to conclude that the paper-boy was in his eighties, and probably lying nearby having died of exhaustion). Scooter was smiling and kicking up dust with his hind feet in that curious way that dogs do when they’ve just performed, as if to say: …now deal with that! - when I dragged him to the sack, hooked the wheel end of the frame over his head, and took the other end by it’s handle.

Ping! Instantly he looked like a guide-dog whose training had been sponsored by the Western Morning News.  In this guise I saw the glowering looks of shop owners and customers alike melt to sympathy; and completed the ensemble by slipping a pair of dark glasses over my eyes, and began tapping the pavement, side to side, with a length of dowel I’d just bought. The dowel was the master-stroke. I think I would have been willing to pay double for it had I known what service it would be to me …way beyond any use I could give it as a craftsman. In that manner we floated buoyantly along on the swelling pity of passers-by.

The only downside to the scheme was that I now had to go where Scooter wanted to go: First he visited a pillar supporting an awning outside WH Smith, then another which he peed on; then he called at each of the remaining three to see if they had been visited by anyone he knew. Some chance, 500 miles from home. After that he spotted another guide-dog – a real one this time – across the road and ran over to it straight into the path of a taxi which screeched to a halt, nearly killing both of us. The taxi driver wanted to say something about it all until he saw my glasses and dowel; then he climbed reluctantly back into his cab, mute with pity.  For more than a minute me and the grey-haired blind woman who owned the other dog – which in spite of its honeyed-looks could fight as savagely as any Pit-Bull – pointed our visages toward the sky, and thrashed our sticks wildly, demanding to know what was going on. During the chaos I stole a glance at Scooter, took aim, and separated he and the other dog by giving him a winding kick to his back side. There was such heartfelt power in that kick, such purpose, that he travelled through the air and a moment later I, still holding the frame, followed him.

Out of that tangle, we weaved back and forth across the street like a pair of drunks trying to remember which pubs had, and which pubs hadn’t banned us; then we fell through a bush and landed in a car park where a delightful-looking young woman came up to me, politely announcing her presence by clearing her throat, got me to my feet and asked if there was anything she could do to help. Her innocent smile, and the twinkling sincerity in her eyes conquered me. I would have given worlds to spend longer in her company and began casting about for something to say:

‘I’m trying to find my car.’ I told her.

‘What colour is it?’

Cars are very dull-looking these days – ten or fifteen years ago they were painted in primary colours with different patterns of polka dots to distinguish them one from another – pretty soon manufacturers realized in their droves that if they painted their cars dull-grey they would stick out like sore thumbs, with the result that these days they are all painted dull-grey …the exception to this rule was a yellow mini I noticed in my periphery vision:

‘It’s a yellow mini.’ I said.  She looked around the car park;

‘Is it that one over there?’ She asked, pointing.

‘What – just in front of the BMW?’

‘Yes.’ she said.

‘That’s the one …would you mind taking my hand and leading me over to it?’

We arrived at it all too quickly; I wasn’t ready to lose her attention:

‘Now then, I’m very keen – eager even – not to put you to any further trouble …but would you happen to have a key for it?’

‘No.’ she said, blinking; ‘I haven’t.’

‘Have you lost it?

‘No,’ she said, ‘you didn’t give it to me.’

‘In that case I must ask you’, said I,  ’…if you have ever broken into a vehicle and hot-wired it?’

‘No.’

‘Well then, would you like to see how it’s done?’

She looked nervous, and backed away a step – but I only asked because I’d noticed that Scooter had somehow managed to get into the vehicle, and was rummaging around under the steering column with some wires in his hand.

It was just then that I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a uniformed officer. He asked me if this was my vehicle; to save confusion I told him it was. He asked me if I was blind; and again, to save a long story I told him I was. Then he arrested me for failing to park in a disabled bay.

You’ll be relieved to hear that I’m out of prison now, and working on the sequel to Phoenix from the Ashes.

It’s stress… but not as you know it.

Posted on by

The Stressful Hebridean islands.

I love shopping in the Hebrides.  It’s all part of the lifestyle.

I was down at the Co, as we call it, standing third in line at the checkout having browsed the empty shelves and had almost half the things I’d come in for.

I was just running through which were the best-stocked bird-tables between there and home, in my mind, when I noticed that the Gentleman being served was elderly, in poor health, and wasn’t responding to stimulus. We’re all going to be there one day. So I smiled, congratulated myself on how patient I can be if I really try, and then, as the minutes ticked by, began chalking off the things I was hoping to get done later in the day… the dentist; the bank; the intercontinental flight I had to catch… and let them go, one by one.

Fifteen minutes later my body went into torpor – a kind of precursor to Coma, and shortly afterwards I lost the will to live. I became merely one of the statues in the queue, but with the last few electronic impulses of brain activity reviewed, with painful regret, the ambitions I had for my life that will never now be achieved.

Suddenly I was wakened…

‘Thank you! Bye! Take care now!’

…by the exaggerated cheerfulness of the cashier. There’s hope! the queue is about to move up one – and I’m still alive; I remember thinking. Before making way for the next shopper, our man had a five pound note to put back in his wallet…  but where on earth can that wallet be? ‘I had it a minute ago’, you could see him thinking, as he patted his pockets. There was nothing for it but to unpack the shopping, whilst examining with some surprise, one or two of the items therein, and wondering how they got there.

‘Is this yours?’ someone asked, bending to the floor behind him.

No reply; a third person taps him on the arm, and points behind him. He looks; there is no one there.

‘Mm?’ Points again… looks  - suddenly there is someone there. Right up close. Whoa – overload! Our shopper is now struggling to take in everything that is happening around him in what war journalists know as ‘a fast-developing situation’.

We queuers, without speaking, urge him to look at the wallet. We can’t move, not now, it’s been too long.

‘Is this yours?’ the voice asks again. He looks:

‘Mmm?’

‘Is this yours?’

He looks at it. ‘No.’ he says, definitely.

Then he looks at it again, anew. ‘Oh yes! – Yes it is!’

Collective laughter, and the elderly gentleman meets everyone’s eyes to acknowledge what fun we are all having together.

‘Where did you find it?’ He asks, out of casual interest, whilst checking that she hasn’t rifled it.

‘On the floor.’

‘I must have dropped it!’

The very conclusion we were about to arrive at ourselves.

At length he says good-bye to all his new friends –  checks he has everything both by carrying out a visual examination of the surrounding area five times, and by interviewing everyone as to whether or not they are of the opinion that he has everything… and, at last, asks to be directed to the exit he is standing next to. Gone.

The next customer, of course, does not rush to fill his place – it would seem rude. Instead she pretends to be busy examining the nutritional information panel on a bottle of bleach. Looking up, with an exclamation of surprise she finds that she is next; and, as if by magic, the cashier is ready for her.

She and the cashier are of a similar age – both in their sixties – the customer leans confidentially in toward the cashier;

‘I haven’t been at all well;’ she whispers, gravely.

‘Och, that’s terrible!’ Says the cashier unable to hide her delight: ‘…this is more like it!…’ I could see her thinking to herself…  ’This is why I took the job!’

She throws a furtive glance in my direction to see how important I am; and having laid that concern to rest, leaned forward, made herself comfortable onto the belt, and settled down to hear the exact nature of the illness in question, and to allow their hair-do’s to have a bit of a tangle and really get to know each another.

For ten minutes I and the folk behind me gaze longingly at the unmanned cash desks. No one speaks. We hear to the muffled whispering; notice the accusatory glances in our direction to make sure we’re not eaves-dropping; and have our suicidal despair punctuated every minute or so by an encouraging ’Och, that’s terrible!’ from the Cashier.

‘No, that really is terrible, that is!

At last the shopper – who had so much more to say – turns to me with a resentful sniff: ‘I’m holding you back.’ she says. It’s a favourite saying – and I’ve never worked out if it is a question, an apology, or simply a statement of fact… but the expected answer – which you have to supply if you want to get on on the island – and which I found myself giving, is: ‘No, you’re alright.’

I am now back at home and responding well to treatment – but tell me: Do you have the same thing in Fortnum and Mason… those of you who live in West Kensington?

Justin.

Jesus – all those words and I never found a way to mention my  book.