Legends from our own lunchtimes

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

The Cure!

Like a scene from a spaghetti western, the men in black did return as they said they would at precisely the appointed hour, except that instead of appearing out of the setting sun with six guns blazing, they came from the car park, carrying a cardboard box the lettering on which read loosely translated, "plum marmalade", with contents which included a few scraps of industrial strength paper towelling and nowhere near enough tools to do the job.

Their manner was no less confident than when they last appeared and I must confess that any quiver of doubt that may have been harboured in the back of my head dissolved instantly when, after a quick assessment of the situation, one of them asked if I could lend him a hammer.

After borrowing a few more tools to supplement the plum marmalade ones, and a rag to supplement the  industrial strength paper towelling scraps, and giving Mr Perkins a few sturdy taps with the hammer, they gave him a tummy tickle and what appeared to be a good old fashioned man-hug, and pronounced him cured.

After further questioning, perhaps he isn't completely cured, but as cured as can be expected without taking him entirely apart, which on further questioning translated to something like, perhaps he's not actually cured at all, but at least now he's not retarded, in fact he's quite advanced.

But they left me with my hammer, so perhaps if I am concerned in the future I too can simply give him a tap on the noggin and see what happens.

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