Rant Read Free Page A

then slipped his hand inside a Marks and Spencer carrier bag to cup under the dog’s bottom as it pooped. The dog looked terribly confused, if not overly unhappy at the arrangement – the old guy just looked as if he was about to throw up his porridge.
    I watched for a few seconds, genuinely fascinated in spite of myself, then harrumphed loudly and slammed the door as hard as I could, hoping Anna was still within hearing distance and would feel terrible remorse that she had lowered me to this.
    As the door slammed there was a crack and a slight tinkle, followed by a shriek and a yelp. Wondering how the art of slamming doors without physical damage has remained a feminine art, I opened the door again sheepishly, but couldn’t see any sign of damage. I was distracted by a yelping sound and looked round to see the old guy shuffling down the street, occasionally looking daggers in my direction, in pursuit of the poodle which looked to have a Marks and Spencer carrier bag sticking out of its arse.
    I slammed the door again, but the moment was gone and my heart really wasn’t in it so it just closed with a bit of a dull thud that nobody except me would really notice; my life in a nutshell.
    I decided to make some tea.
    Then I got to thinking that maybe I should have a shit first.
    Or I could make a cup of tea and sit on the toilet with it – now we’re talking! And what about some toast and that last scrape of Marmite I hid…
    Just then a shadow crossed the hall and the doorbell went. Finding a direction for the day at last I rattled open the door, ready to launch back into it with Anna.
    â€˜Ha!’ I shouted triumphantly, if a little unoriginally, and the motorcycle courier on the doorstep hurriedly stepped back and stared at me threateningly.
    After a moment he mumbled something through his helmet at me. It sounded like, ‘Are you Number Six?’
    â€˜I am not a number, I am a free man!’ I mumbled back. The little I could see of his face managed to look both confused and pissed-off (perhaps he was a fellow resting thespian, given the range of emotions at his fingertips), so I signed for the proffered package and sent him on his way.
    Bulky parcel, I thought, scripts, by the feel of it. Perhaps my agent had finally pulled her finger out of her bottom (or someone else’s) and got me some work for a change – or should that be for some small change.
    You’ll have to pardon the fact that I didn’t get terribly excited at the prospect, but I knew what kind of work it was likely to be. I’d probably flick through four hundred pages of script to find one line highlighted.
    The crowd murmurs excitedly/angrily/happily (Delete as appropriate) or The crowd laughs, cheers, then moves forward hungrily, menacingly as Tess knocks a coconut from the shy, or, if the Gods are truly smiling, there might even be a speaking part – 16th peasant: Please sir, we are but poor men…
    Amazing how often that one crops up; the seventeenth-, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century equivalent of Can I interest you in a Big Issue , sir, madam?
    I dropped the parcel onto the kitchen table, opting for a bit of deferred gratification. Time for such fripperies later, I kidded myself. Or rather I didn’t.
    In the meantime, I
    made some tea and found there was no milk;
    made some toast and found there was no margarine;
    consumed both on the toilet and then found there was no toilet roll;
    washed myself, and the crockery, in the bathroom sink (yes of course I changed the water in between, what kind of animal do you think I am?) and retreated once more into the kitchen.
    I looked at the parcel and then the clock.
    Then I thought Bollocks, still six hours to ‘Countdown’.
    And I opened it.
    My first response was to laugh. This had to be a joke, and one in fairly poor taste.
    What I’d removed, thinking it was some weirdly formatted script, was in fact a bundle of cash.
    Lots and lots