Man and Dog



The dog plays football every day
with me, along the passageway.
We pass the ball from dog to man
and then from man to dog again.
I’m bored as hell. It pleases him
for dogs are slow and somewhat dim.


The man plays football every day
with me, along the passageway.
He tries so hard, it’s rather sweet
for one who’s blessed with two left feet.
It keeps him happy; I don’t mind.
I’ve grown quite fond of human kind.

Man and Dog

We both hate football.

How much happier we would be
watching cricket on tv.

Aggressive Squirrels


I love surreal headlines “ Man jailed in wire case”, “ There are no nails in cheese, say police.” That kind of thing. But I could never have hoped for anything so unlikely, so bizarre as “ School playground evacuated on account of unusually aggressive squirrel. “

But that was the headline in several papers yesterday.

I’ve never thought of squirrels as anything other than furry, cheeky chappies who run up trees and promote road safety. I wondered how aggressive squirrels are in general. Do they hang around the school gates, flicking their nuts at passers-by? Do they ride their chopper bikes over the rounders pitch? Do they make dark threats ? “ You want some action punk ,huh ? “ Gimme your dinner money, kid, or the My Little Pony gets it ! “

Then I noticed it was just one squirrel. You can imagine the type- born on the wrong side of the tracks, wears a (furry) biker jacket, chews gum a lot. How could one squirrel wreak such havoc that a whole school of small children was hurried back inside the school building ? Did he kick over the waste bins ? Pull a rude sign at Miss ?

And once they were inside – were they safe ? I could imagine thirty children hiding under their desks, shaking with terror. There is a terrible silence, then little footsteps pattering down the corridor. They pause outside the classroom door. The kids hold their breath. More footsteps, silence.

Then an almighty crash. Axe blows and splintering wood. Then a small furry face, sneering and full of hatred.

“ Heeeeere’s Tufty !”

The Panzerschredder

Shredders ! Doncha love ‘em ! I bought a new one this morning because my last one had finally given up the ghost. It was a mean-spirited, wimpy thing made out of thin plastic that did nothing but make a self-pitying whine and whinge if I asked it shred anything more sturdy than a couple of sheets of fine tissue paper.

So I’ve got this new one. It’s bigger, black and somehow more…manly.

Before I set it up, I happened to glance at the instructions on the box- in four languages-English, German, French, and something full of vowels which I will call Dutch. It’s fascinating how national differences spring out from the tiniest pieces of text.

The English description is short, straightforward and to the point:

“6 sheet paper cross cut shredder”

Well, you can’t argue with that. The German description was much more allusive:

“ Sechs Blatt CrosscutAktentvernichter”

Six pages is obvious, as is the borrowed “ Cross cut” – but Aktenvernichter ! Do you know what it means ? Have you any idea ? It means “Destroyer” – this thing will destroy your Acts ! In fact it’s worse than that- “vernichten” means to annihilate, to reduce to nothing !
I’m looking at the black box under my desk with new respect. Is it some kind of Panzerschredder ? Have I just brought Death The Destroyer Of Worlds back from Staples Stationery Store ?

The French have a more flamboyant view:

“6 feuilles destructeur de documents a coupe croisse”

That’s got real style, don’t you think ? “ feuilles” for a start- which means “leaves” and not “pages”.” And the destructeur de documents is obviously a character from the “ The three Musketeers”- probably one of Richelieu’s bad boys.

“ Aha Monsieur, I, the Destroyer of Documents, will shred your paltry leaves with my cross cut Wiff ! Waff ! “

But I really like the Dutch version:

“6 vel papierverschnipperer”

This is a character from Hans Christan Andersen, isn’t it ? The thin,sharp eyed Papierverschnipperer- a kind of Dutch Edward Scissor Hands- who snips every bit of papier- 6 vels at a time. He would make a good excuse for Dutch schoolchildren, wouldn’t he ? “ I’m sorry, Meinheer, but the Papierverschnipperer cut up my homework !”

I’m looking at it now. It’s waiting, maw open wide, motor throbbing…it could have my arm off…don’t worry, I’ll be careful …I’ll….agh !”

The day a cup of coffee saved my life

The day a cup of coffee saved my life

“I am going to tell you how a cup of coffee saved my life.”
Great Uncle Mostyn extended his wrinkled hand and selected a piece of Turkish delight from the silver box on the table. He had changed in the ten years since I had last seen him.His hair was still coiffed in silver swirls which gave him the air of an elegant meringue, but no amount of rouge and powder could rejuvenate a face seamed and pouched with age.
“You’re not paying attention, dear boy”
“I am, uncle- honestly”
But in truth I wasn’t. I was looking out at the garishly wonderful South American sunset which flooded the horizon beyond his shoulder. I was listening to the rustling of palm trees and the asthmatic breathing of Uncle Mostyn’s parrot, Sewell.
Uncle Mostyn tapped the table pettishly with his fan.
“Edwyn ! I am an old man.I am ninety eight years old. It is therefore quite probable that I am dying. I wish to relate an episode in my life when I faced a man with a gun. You might do me the courtesy of at least appearing to listen !”
“I’m all ears, uncle”
“A disfigurement which could easily have been avoided if your mother had paid attention to me immediately after your birth,” snapped Uncle Mostyn. He steepled his fingers and stared moodily at Sewell, who was taken with a sudden bout of coughing, like a tubercular old tramp.
“It happened,” he said suddenly, “In 1929. I was working in the beverage department of a large store in London-a store which still has Royalty among its clientele. It was a wonderful education for a boy not quite twenty years old. During the day I learned the provenance of every tea, coffee, infusion or tisane which graced our shelves. To this day I remember the peculiar properties of a coffee bean grown only on the slopes of a volcano in Uzbekistan. At night…I learned…other things altogether.
Which was why, in the late summer of that year, I had to leave England in a hurry, following an unfortunate incident with the Bishop of Wolverhampton’s chaplain and a Sunday newspaper. I took a steerage passage to New York where I landed…almost legally…on October 23rd.”

His voice was as soft and hypnotic as the gentle susurration of the waves as they crumpled onto the beach behind him.
“I spent my first week in America at the Algonquin Hotel, drinking malt whisky and eating oysters.”
“And after that ?”
“I had no money so they threw me out on the street. Americans have no sense of style.”
Uncle Mostyn’s old, cracked face suddenly clouded with terrors more than half century old.
“It was not an agreeable time….New York winters are particularly unpleasant…it is a damp, biting cold that rolls in off the river…..for three nights I slept in an alleyway behind a bakery…it was warmer there, you see…but the smell of fresh bread was torture….I wandered from humiliation to…humiliation, getting colder and hungrier by the day. “
His eyes closed. Outside the evening was turning to blue velvet.
“What happened then ?” I whispered.
He was awake in an instant.
“I smelled coffee.”
“And that saved your life ?”
Uncle Mostyn looked at me pityingly.
“Of course ! Even the aroma of a good coffee is enough to revitalise the spirits.”
He held out a small chunk of Turkish Delight to Sewell , who took it carefully in his hooked beak and then began to suck on it noisily.
“This,however, was not a good coffee.” Uncle Mostyn continued “ It smelled like yesterday’s grounds boiled up for the third time…but I was desperate. I stumbled down some stairs. I saw a sign- “Sullivan’s Coffee Lounge” – I pushed open the door, greedy for warmth…”
“And then ?”
“I collapsed on the floor,”he said , “It was the voice of an angel who brought me back to this Vale of Tears.”
“What did the Angel say ?” I asked.
“’ Give the poor sap a cuppa cawfee’ “ said Uncle Mostyn in an execrable Irish accent. “ I had encountered the proprietor, Mrs Sullivan ”
The geography of my uncle’s face relaxed with the memory.The high places were levelled and the valleys raised. For a moment he could have been a youthful seventy five.
“ She picked me up so easily, I might have been a feather pillow- then put me into a chair and placed a steaming mug into my aching grasp.”
“It must have tasted wonderful, “ I said.
“It was appalling. Quite the worst cup of coffee I have ever tasted. I told her so, muttering through numbed and frozen lips – ‘This is not coffee. This was made from something which probably contained powdered owl droppings. It might have been shown a coffee bean once- as something to aspire to.’
“And what did she say ?”
“The poor bastard’s delirious. Stick him on the couch and throw a blanket over him. I’ll chuck him out in the morning.”
“And did she ?”
“Good gracious ! No ! When I told her that my name was Seamus O’Neill she clasped me to her ample bosom and begged me to stay on and work behind the bar.”
“But your name isn’t……”
“Of course it isn’t !” said Uncle Mostyn testily,” I played on her good nature- as she later played on mine. I started off tending bar- which meant pouring shots of diluted lighter fuel for customers crazy enough to think that it was gin. I made coffee for the ones with more intelligence- bad coffee at first- that was all I had to work with- and then- later on- good coffee – Ethiopian Chestnut and Guatemala Gran Reserva…that kind of thing. To start with our clientele consisted of bored clerks with tight celluloid collars, plumbers and janitors.. if we were fifty dollars up on Friday night it was a good week. But then word went round and we began to get bohemians…socialites who would drop in for a bath-tub gin and a decent coffee after seeing a Broadway show. Ma Sullivan left more and more of the business to me- it gave her more time to indulge her little hobbies.”
“Which were ?”
Uncle Mostyn screwed up his face into a mass of wrinkles.
“She played the horses. An Irish vice, I believe. But we had an equal division of labour, Ma Sullivan and I – I earned the money and she spent it. We were doing well- making two, sometimes three hundred dollars a week and yet…”
Uncle Mostyn stared glassily at the wall. For a long moment I thought he had died, or at least had a fit.
“And yet..” I prompted.
My uncle re-entered his ancient body with a noticeable jolt.
“And yet there was never any money to pay for the booze, or the coffee or a painter to give the walls a lick of paint…and she was always talking to Joe Lezzard.”
Uncle Mostyn leaned forward intently, his eyes the colour of lightly poached eggs
“ Joe Lezzard was a regular. He came in two or three times a week and Ma Sullivan had decreed he could have whatever he wanted- on the house. I liked him because he dressed well- a neat three piece suit in dark grey and a silk tie. Every Friday night he and Ma would retire to the back room; I guessed the intercourse that took place there was financial, rather than carnal as Ma Sullivan weighed three hundred pounds and had a face like a broken shovel. But Ma ‘s private life scarcely peeked over my horizon. I was young, I was good looking, and for the first time since I arrived in America…I had money in my pocket.

And then, one morning in early summer, I returned to the bar after a night of…diversion…to find the door open and unlocked. This was not just unusual- it was unheard of. Ma had three locks on the door and she and I were the only people who had keys. Cautiously, I went inside. The air smelled of sunshine and last night’s cigarettes. The place was empty.And then I heard an indistinct noise from the back room. I moved softly behind the counter and picked up the baseball bat Ma kept there for customers who were reluctant to pay. The door to the back room was ajar….

“Hi Seamus !” said Joe Lezzard , “ I was kind of hoping it wouldn’t be you.”
Joe was standing by the open safe .He held out his hand and I noticed it contained a large black revolver. The muzzle stared at me like a malevolent eye.I suddenly realised that I had lost the power of speech; my throat felt as though it was filled with sawdust.
“How about you put the bat down,” Joe suggested, “ We don’t want no accidents, do we…”
I laid the baseball bat slowly on the floor.
“Now back off,” said Joe, “Let’s you and me go sit in the front parlour- and we can have a little talk.”

Joe sat down at one of the tables. The gun gestured me to do the same.
“Now the first thing I gotta do,” said Joe, “is give you this.”
He reached into his inside pocket with one hand while the gun watched me warily. He pulled out an envelope and threw it on the table.
“Read it,” said Joe, “It’s got your name on the front.”
It was a note from Ma.
“There must be some mistake, Mr Lezzard,” I gasped.
Joe shook his head.
“You’re a nice guy, Seamus,” he said, “I guess you’re a fruit but that don’t matter. You deserve to be told the truth.Truth One is this- I work for a fine gentleman called Mr Dillaglio who ensures that the business premises in this part of town remain undisturbed by fire ,theft or mayhem.That’s why I drop in from time to time- to collect a small weekly payment from Ma Sullivan to ensure same.With me so far ?”
I nodded.
“Truth Two is that Ma Sullivan owes Mr Dillaglio- owes him big – like eight weeks without so much as a dollar. Does this sound right to you `?”
I shook my head violently.
“Seamus- I gotta tell you. Ma Sullivan has been using Mr Dillaglio’s money to back the ponies. Using- and losing. Ain’t that a shameful thing ?”
“Absolutely awful,” I gabbled.
“Truth Three is that Ma Sullivan is about as Irish as you are. Her real name’s Ellie Foston- Canadian- she was seen catching a train north at two thirty seven this morning. I guess she’ll be over the border by now.”
I thought I could see the tiniest glimmer of light at the end of a long tunnel.
“Excuse me…Joe…” I said, “But I wonder if Mr Dillaglio would be interested in taking over the business..?”
Joe seemed to give this idea serious consideration.
“Yeh, “ he said at last, “Mr Dillaglio would be very interested in so doing.”
I was beginning to feel a little more confident.
“Perhaps,” I ventured, “He would like to retain the current bar manager …”
Joe shook his head.
“Mr Dillaglio is a man of great patience and understanding…but he has his reputation to consider. An example has to be made…you understand..”
He reached forward and patted my hand.
“But Ma Sullivan has gone….” I protested.
“Exactly,” said Joe, “Which leaves …you…”
I knew then, with a terrible,cold certainty, that I could be dead within the next few minutes.
“But you can’t !”
I lurched to my feet and started to move towards the street door.
“Don’t move !”
Joe was on his feet. The gun was staring hungrily at my forehead.I heard the oiled click as he pulled back the hammer.
“Now sit down…I don’t want to kill you here…it’s a messy business…cleaning bills to consider.”
When you are staring into the black mouth of death, all fear leaves you. A profound calm flooded through my body. I felt clever, resourceful, intensely alive.
“Perhaps,” I said, “I could have a cup of coffee before…”
“Sure !” said Joe, “We got time. Make me one while you’re about it- but no funny business.”
I went behind the counter and switched on the coffee machine; I reached for the tin of ground coffee and then stopped….”
Uncle Mostyn paused. Outside the tropical night glittered like a cheap mirror ball.
“You recall I mentioned a certain coffee,” he said, “Grown on the slopes of a volcano in Uzbekistan.”
“It is a curious bean. Used by the Uzbeki shaman to contact the spirit world, it has a double effect. First it sedates, and then…if taken in the correct strength, provokes visions.”
Uncle Mostyn leered.
“I had bought a small packet the week before- as a trial. I made two cups of Uzbeki- one heavily watered for me and one – double strength- for Joe, and took them back to the table.
Joe took a slug of coffee.
“That’s good,” he said, “You make a good cup of coffee. I’m really sorry about this.If it was up to me I’d just break your legs and take whatever’s in the till- so I can say I’ve earned my crust.But MrDillaglio needs a corpse. He’s got to have a photo in the paper – “Bar tender slain in coffee house slaughter” – it keeps the troops in line. He is a very demanding man, Mr Dillaglio .”
“Life must be very difficult for you,” I said carefully, studying his face for signs of somnolence.
“ Then there’s my wife Delia- always on at me for a new coat and when can we change the car and when am I going to get a promotion. The protection business is very precarious, you know. You got bad debtors to deal with as well as other mobs muscling in on your territory and then there’s the image – I mean you got to look smart. If you’re going to ice some guy it’s only fair to make sure that the last thing he sees is a decent suit.”
Joe’s face was misted with sweat.
“Tell me one thing-” he said ,” Have you got any brothers ?”
“Then what’s that bastard doing behind the bar ?”
He swung the revolver round and pulled the trigger. Two bottles of gin disintegrated into glittering rain.
“Jesus ! “ said Joe, “Three of them now ! Which one is you ?”
I dived under the table as he blasted the empty room. At last I could hear nothing except the click of the empty cylinder as Joe pulled the trigger over and over again. At last there was nothing but silence and the smell of cordite and gin.
I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Joe was kneeling beside me. His pupils were the size of pinheads.
“Excuse me, “ he said, “But have you got any more ammo? I seem to have run out”
Then he collapsed beside me on the floor and started to snore.

It was time to move on. I went back to my room and collected my stuff. Then I went back to the bar. Joe was still fast asleep. I thought for a moment about leaving him there. Then I found a trolley out back that we used for shifting crates of gin around. I loaded Joe aboard and dropped him off on the front doorstep of the Trappist monastery down the street. He did very well there , I believe, and became a respected theologian in later years.

By two o’clock I was on a train headed south. There was a song at that time – one line of it was going round and round my brain…..”

The tropical night was filled with tiny noises- the hush of waves on the beach, the wind rustling in the palm trees. My uncle’s face hung in the light of the hurricane lamp like a old oil painting, cracked and dusty with age.

“What was it ?” I asked.
Uncle Mostyn’s pale eyes flickered with amusement.
“ The song ? Something about there being an awful lot of coffee in Brazil.”