Sleeping Car to East Garforth

(i)

- Will you be having any lunch, monsieur?

- I'm not sure. And less of the "monsieur"!

- Sorry, madame.

- Anyway, this "meal deal" - what kind of crisps do you get with that? Do you, for instance, have any helicopter crisps?

- Non, madame, only plane!

(They laugh for the best part of deux minutes.)

- Any Bacon Fries?

- No, mon cherie, but we do have Les Frazzles.

- Goddamn it, that isn't the same thing at all!

- Pardonnez-moi, mon petit pamplemousse.

- Very well, I'll have the Frazzles, the ploughperson's déjeuner sur leopard bread, a can of potato seltzer... and a kiss from your supersoft lips...

- Très bien, monsieur.

(ii)

- How is he, Doctor?

- He's had a nasty knock on his naughtifers. Did anybody see what happened?

(The train passes noisily through a tunnel, obliterating all other sounds.)

- ...a box set of Brother Beyond CDs, an astrakhan coat which, according to the label, is the property of a Mr L Grayson, and the overpowering stench of facon.

- Indeed. Well, that's for the pigs to investigate. I believe they're boarding at Strasbourg. Or is it Belper? Anywaze, the patient must not, I repeat, MUST NOT be moved. He's very weak and in need of rest. I've given him 10cc of hot beef so he should sleep for the next few hours.

- Thank you Doctor.

- What makes you think that I'm a doctor? I've done what I can for him, Bod knows. If we can just get to Matlock Bath, things might just be all right... but really, we're in the hands of Bod.

(iii)

Condemned to mooch and loiter

purposelessly for eternity.

It's Sunday teatime for the soul.

Sure, "Sing Something Simple"

like the Last Rites in Latin

or an invocation of my demon

Jim Bowen.

Who will release me

from this ghost of gooseflesh?

Bring down the curtain

on this scurvy existence?

Wipe away inane smiles,

the street eejit rictus?

End this grey half-life,

lift this leaden Shed Seven pall?

I put on my Moon Boots

and I walk on down the hall.

B.R. 20.04.2022

Drawing of Crested Garforth Tit by B.R.