Amock Comedy Compendium HTML version
There is scaffolding across the gable end, and much of it is shrouded in canvas. But there’s a gap in the canvas,
high up on the wall, because Hugh needs light to work.
He is ladling on the paint with a large brush, like any other busy artisan. The paint he is enthusiastically throwing
onto the wall is an orangey red.
A very similar orangey red to the overalls Fiona was wearing. Fiona was a smallish and feisty-looking blonde in
her mid 20s, with a cuddly look that was deceptive.
She walked towards a cubicle, carrying a pile of towels. The massage parlour was pine-panelled and hygienic
looking, though a little faded. Fiona entered the cubicle where a fat, naked, man was lying face down on the
couch. Fiona dumped the towels, poured oil on the man's back and began massaging.
After a while his hand dropped from his side, to brush against her leg. Getting braver, he stroked her leg. Fiona
sighed resignedly, took a pencil from her pocket and moved it towards the man's backside where she made one
rapid stabbing motion. There was a sharp intake of breath, and his hand withdrew quickly from her leg. Fiona
returned the to pencil to her pocket and, having dealt with the occupational hazard, returned to taking care of
the fat man’s less carnal needs.
Meanwhile, Hugh climbed down the ladder, watched by two 10 year old boys. The boys had been annoying the
gardeners, but those of the green fingers had finished for the day and were packing their van. Hugh got to the
bottom and started fussing about with paint cans, mixing up a new batch of paint. The two boys came over to
watch what he was doing, then looked up at the wall.
Finally the smaller boy gathered his courage and asked the question with a cough. “What is it, mister ?”
His friend, the sophisticate, answered for Hugh. “It's a muriel, ya wanker.”
The younger lad, a budding art critic, was all eagerness. “Is it? Let’s see it, mister, go on.”
Hugh dealt with them as he had been dealt with when young. “Bugger off.”
He continued stirring the paint, the same orangey-red.
Very similar in colour to the red hair of Davina.
She was washing dishes.
Plate. Into the basin of soapy water. Good scrub. Rinse under running tap. Stack.
She was one of the few people in the world who had actually been trained to wash dishes. Her mother had been
that kind of woman.
Davina was five foot eleven inches tall. Her inside leg was 38 inches, and her legs had good tone and shape.
She took size six shoes. Her bum was small and neat, and yet well defined. Her hips were 34 inches, her waist
was 22 inches and her stomach was flat and tight. Her chest was 34 inches, but she had a narrow back and took
a C cup. Her skin was flawless, without blemishes, marks or scars. It was the colour of light honey. Her hair
was the flaming orange of a promising evening, and her face was that dream of symmetry and perfection. Wide
eyes, hazy grey. Retrousse nose. Wide mouth. High cheekbones. Dimple in chin. She had Audrey Hepburn’s
She finished the dishes and dried her hands. There was a pile of housework to do, but she didn't feel like it.
She never did.