Harrison - But Thats Absurd

But thats absurd

A
tall story
without
that most common
fifth sign of our abc

Gordon John Harrison

AuthorHouse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: 1-800-839-8640

2011 by Gordon John Harrison. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/23/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8065-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8066-1 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,
and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

It was a bright cold day in April and my clock was striking thirty six. Sounds familiar? All right, I do admit that this is hardly an original start to this curious story which I am about to commit to writing. But as anybody so foolish as to carry on absorbing this particular opus will find out, I am no wordsmith. This is in fact my first foray into that difficult world of writing a book. I was always told that apart from having an involving plot and a convincing cast to attract and maintain its public, a good yarn has to draw bookworms in, right from its first group of words. So hats off to that famous British author of Animal Farm for providing inspiration for my introduction.

In fact it was in April and it was bright and cold but my alarm clock was actually ringing at six thirty a.m. as this saga burst in upon my normally placid humdrum disposition. At that waking hour on that particular morning, I was making my usual first contact with my twin across in my bathroom mirror and bidding him good day. But I found out to my horror that I could not talk lucidly. I was virtually dumb. Trying hard, a word or two did blurt out from my mouth but abruptly I could not say a thing. Stop start stop start. Paralysis.

I was hoping it would pass. For almost half an hour I sat at my dining room window, calling out to my cat Monty, to jump in and savour a morning dish of fish I had for himbut to no avail. I could only murmur a passing noun or an occasional consonantand all I got for my charity was a curious look and a snub from that unthankful animal. Why or how had I lost my normal vocal capability? In fact, it was all stupid. I had no cough nor cold. I did not pass away any twilight hours of last night shouting loudly at a football match nor arguing, as is my want, about politics with that stubborn right-wing MP living two doors away. In fact from noon to night, it was just yours truly, calm and happy with my own company, living solo in my flat, doing nothing as usual but absorbing a titillating book, with a soothing CD of Mozart playing on my hi-fi. But now, in this cold light of day, I was mostly taciturn, stopping and starting to talk to my shadow, occasionally finding I could put across small groups of words, such as Talk, you fool! Shout out loud! This is ridiculous!

In truth, what a good job it was that today was a Saturday. So I had a day or two in hand to sort out my vocal chords again prior to turning up for my job this coming Monday night, waiting on patrons at Luigis Trattoria in Farringdon, North London.

An action plan was vital. To start with, I just had to go out of my flat, visit local shops and try various forms of communication with normal humans, or I would go crazy. So a quick jump into my trusty old Ford Focus and I was off with alacrity to stock up my cupboard with provisions. This outing was crucial as Lisa, my loving but pugnacious bosom pal, was aiming to turn up tonight following a four month trip abroad. My plan was to cook a tantalising dish or two and, with luck, to catch up on a long hot night of passion. This was not surprising as I was waiting faithfully, abstaining monastically from any amorous activity.

But to bring my long drawn out chastity to a halt, it was obviously crucial that I should talk and act normally again with Lisa. So I thought I would not pay a visit as usual to our local Sainsburys, but would call at a small community shop in our town, which is run by my wily long standing Indian chum, Sanjay Kapur. This kind old chap was always happy to say a warm good morning and to chat for hours. And I had to try to chat. For hours if I had to.

In my hand I had my usual list of organic products and low fat brands and as always, to bring it all back, a quantity of plastic shopping bags as my contribution to saving our world from a gigantic mountain of rubbish.

Why if it isnt my buddy, Paul. How you doing?

V v w thanks. Such was my pitiful partial outburst.

Sanjay put on a curious look.

You OK, old son? Too much boozing last night, no?

No. I just cant sp I got thus far and basta, couldnt finish. Why did I stop half way through in this way?

Sanjay had to laugh. Lost your vocals, old chum. Struck dumb?

I ran my hand across my lips with a vacant shrug.

You talk too much, no? Not to worry. Just go round my gondolas and pick out what food and drink you want.

I was happy simply to shop and stay schtum but automatically said out loud: Thanks a lot, Sanjay

My pal was aghastand so was I. Paul. Thats you talking. Back to normal now? You just said Thanks a lot.

Thats right, I did say thanks a lot. I was dumbstruck too. Valid words from my mouth. Was I in fact lucid again?

Fantastic! said our Indian buddy. So your block is not continuous. O.K. Just carry on trying to talk or it could all vanish again. But my mind was a blank and stupidly I did not know what to say.

I got a prompt from Sanjay. In fact, how about you trying to say umm Vindaloo curry with poppadums.

Vindaloo curry with poppadums

Amazing! Im hungry just by your saying it. Now try Two Birijani and a Rogan Josh

Two Birijani and a Rogan Joshwow! I did it. I was blissfully happy.

You know, you ought to do a waiting job in an Indian joint, not a high flown Italian dump said Sanjay with a mocking look. A last go. Say two Goodhi Bhaji and a Khat Mithi Gobi. Its a tasty mouthful, but can you talk about it?

I said it with no stumbling. Sanjays grin was gigantic. You got it now. It sounds all back to normal. So how about simply saying out loud all thats put down on your shopping list?

Br B T Catastrophic! I could not murmur a word from that list. I was back to my block. I had to admit that my affliction was again virtually total.

Sanjay was full of sympathy, watching as I slowly did my shopping, stomping up and down his rows of goods with a look that could kill, picking out provisions from his tidy displays of tins and packs, angry at my idiotic actions, or should I say inactions. As I was finally paying, Sanjay, with a kindly look, said Paul, old son, if I was you, if you want to talk again, I should stop buying British food and go totally Indianthat way you wont go hungry. Or if not, just rush out and consult a good doctor straightaway.

I was still in a painfully black mood on arriving back at my flat, and had to admit that Sanjay was right. I should talk as soon as I could to a doctorand not just any ordinary quack. Doing a bit of googling on my PC, I found a psychiatrist with a diploma in what is known as aphonic obtrusion, who was, surprisingly, working on Saturdays and Sundays. So I rang him and was put through to his assistant. But could I talk? Miraculously on this occasion, I said all my words without a hiccup.