Legends from our own lunchtimes

Monday, June 24, 2013


Like a scene from a spaghetti western, the three men in black arrived at precisely the appointed hour.

Although it was six and a half hours after high noon they had come for a showdown with our Mr Perkins.  They listened intently like doctors doing their hospital rounds as François kindly relayed my lengthy tale of what had and had not been done in previous attempts to remedy his problems.

They rubbed their chins with greasy fingers and conferred for a time, then took pains to assure me that the oil seeping from his arthritic joints did not need urgent attention, but I should attend to it next time I had him out of the boat, as though that were something that happened each evening.

Then they pronounced him retarded.

Well Perkins are renowned for their simple engines, but retarded?   I must admit I had been canvassing that possibility for some time as all my efforts to potty train the old bloke had been in vain.  Now I had three others who were of like mind.

After enquiring what they may be able to do to resolve this state of being, they shook my hand and said that perhaps they would return at six thirty tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, shook my hand and rode off into the sunset.

We were in the meantime left in silence, pondering the meaning of "perhaps."

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