One’s eyes were still heavy and one thought one could quite
easily fall back to sleep. In an attempt to raise oneself from one’s semi-tired
state one leant over to the radio on one’s mahogany bedside table and switched
it on. A bit of the delicious Chris Evans would surely to the trick.
It was rather disappointing, however, when one entered a
conversation with some poor individual who, evidently, had terrible health
problems; words rattling out at a rate of knots with a frequent audible gasp
for breath. One bit one’s lip in sympathy at this poor poppet who, one could
only assume, suffered her difficulty acquiring oxygen from something as ghastly
as a collapsed lung perhaps. With one’s levels of sympathy rising with every
gasp, one was rather horrified at the distasteful insertion of popular
musicality. This was too serious a moment to be putting toe-tapping ditties on!
As one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, turned the knob on one’s
bedroom door and entered with a squeak (coming
from the hinges of the door, or course, and not from Chu Me), he made his way – in a rather dashing pair of flip-flops – to
the side of one’s bed with a tray of breakfast goodies. One turned down the
volume on the radio slightly and relayed a summary of this poor creature. Chu
Me looked a little puzzled and placed the breakfast tray across the mound of
duvetliciousness that covered one’s lallies and reached over to the radio to
turn up the volume.
He listened for only matter of seconds and then – with a
totally unnecessary and unbecoming tut – advised me the person was not an
oxygen-deficient lung collapsee, but was in fact Zoe Ball!! Good Lord!
Anyhoo … as soon as one realised who it was, one has to say
all levels of sympathy evaporated and she simply became increasingly annoying
and totally unsuitable for early morning airage. Particularly with her
recounting the story of when she was walking down the street with last night’s
G-string stuck to her face without her knowing … or some such fancy.
Looking through the misty haze one could see the figure of
old-gaspy sitting there. Clicking on a button, from which one could establish
communication with her, one offered direction.
“You’re coming through rather loud, dear. One fears you may
need to step back a little from the microphone.” She rose from her seat and took a step back. “Will this do,
Dame Crusty? >gasp<”
“A little further, dear.”
“>gasp< Will this do?”
“One fancies a little further.”
“That ok?”
“A little further?”
A distant voice said, “It that – erm – ok now? >gasp<”
"A few steps more, dear?"
“Is that ok now?” The voice was faint but one was still not
satisfied.
“One thinks just a couple more steps back and we’ll have it,
poppet.”
The distant mumble came immediately back. “I can’t go any
further back, Dame Crusty, my backs against the wall of the stationery
cupboard”
“Can you manage to kick the door shut, dear?”
There was the far off sound of her hoof catching the side of
the door and eventually there was a click as the door closed and the catch
secured itself. After several minutes there was nothing but silence. “Ah! Now
that’s much better!”
As one awoke from one’s dream, one felt a warm feeling at
one’s accomplishment … or so one thought until one realised one had knocked the
teapot over from the breakfast tray and it was soaking through one’s bed clothes. Still, it certainly
put a spring in one’s step for the remainder of the day.
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