Chapter Sixteen: An Unfortunate Omission

I knew I had forgotten something by the way Alfonso, the small grey beetle (or weevil to be precise) who has made his home on my desk, was behaving over breakfast.He was dawdling over his broiling mug of Welsh coffee and blackened skillet of eggs “Hungarian Style”, a combination he normally wolfs down with aplomb.

The back of the Alpha Bits cereal packet, with its forty year old competition to win a pair of olive coloured elasticated slacks “Perfect for lounging! Perfect for gardening! Even for that special occasion!” barely held his attention in the way it used to.“Alfonso”, I said finally, “what’s wrong?”

He mournfully looked up at me, and in the puddle of milk at the bottom of his bowl that was fast filling with the colours of a thousand different sugary dyes, pushed the remaining soggy fragments of puffed rice about to spell:

“X-Y-G-R-F-Z”

“Well, it’s certainly a very high Scrabble score” I said admiringly, “but I have no idea what-“- and then like a fool, giving my forehead a slap for extra emphasis, I realised. It was his secret code, only to be used on very special occasions, for: “YOU’VE FORGOTTEN MY BIRTHDAY, YOU UTTER SPAZ”

I wasted no time in making amends.

“Right!” I said. “We’re going out into that high street this instant, and you can have anything you want. I mean it. If your heart’s desire is in a shop window out there, it’s yours”.His spirits seemed to lift a little, although he muttered something about “So much for Alfonso the Weevil’s Day Off” – and off we set.

As soon as we reached the High St, however, I realised I had made another catastrophic blunder. In my head, we would have gone for a cheery stroll, doffing our caps at the parson and the McClintock sisters out for their daily constitutional, before drooling over the hand baked jammy rings and cream buns in Sam The Baker’s window, perhaps getting Alfonso togged up in a special birthday waistcoat at Morris & Son (Tailors), and finally settling on the lovingly crafted wooden toy train set made by Professor Guiseppe in his workshop, the paint still lick fresh on the green engine, the white haired old master craftsman oblivious to the sea of shavings at his feet.

However, I had forgotten that we actually lived in our neighbourhood, in our city.

“Right, Alfonso”, I said rather bleakly, surveying the rain lashed multilane highway, infested with railings and one way signs, “It’s a Chicken Cottage boneless bucket feast for 8 or a recently deceased lollipop lady’s windcheater from Sue Ryder. Take your pick, you lucky weevil”.

Alfonso pulled one of his most lugubrious faces, and said

“It is days like today that make me realise that there is almost no point to life. That existence is one giant, never-ending practical joke of which I am the constant beneficiary, and that it would really be better for all concerned if we called it a day. I cannot see the point of me, and I certainly cannot see the point of you.”

So dear reader, I obliged him, flattening the merry quipster under a giant fibreglass gnome, which I had stolen from our local garden centre for this very purpose. But that’s me – always thinking ahead.

I suspect, however, that he’ll be back tomorrow.