Stan was looking out of his bay window at the old rowan tree. in front of their lovely house in a quiet tree lined avenue in Knittingham,U.K..After some very intense sunshine in August,its leaves had withered and he thought it might be dead.He had his microfibre cloth but was not even pretending to clean the window…. one of his duties in the home..he preferred cooking as it was crearive.
He was thinking pensively because his wife Mary had told him he ought to be wearing an antiperspirant when they had a few words the night before.
“But I’m 105,” he cried.”Surely,I don’t need an antiperspirant now?”
“Don’t exaggerate,”Mary replied,”You are only 75.Do you need Cognitive Age Truth Therapy as well?”
“Don’t be so rude; do I smell nasty,?” he asked her angrily,ignoring the faint hint he was exaggerating about his age.
“Well,it says in the Telegraph that all the Top Men now wear deodorants.”
“Good grief, what made you read the Telegraph,that extremely right wing apology for a newspaper?And I should say the present government certainly need strong deodorants.I have a good wash every day and a bath once in a blue moon…I am clean enough for my mistress!”
Annie his mistress lived right next door to the surprise of all who thought they knew them well.
How can we ever know any other people well?
“Well,I am taking you to Boot’s tomorrow to find one for you”
“How dare you order me about like this.Even if I wanted to wear a deodorant I wouldn’t tolerate being spoken to like that.~I am an adult man and I smell the same as always ;why don’t you buy me a new sponge and some decent soap in Sainsburys’ instead of this lavender or rose rubbish.”
Mary began to sob quietly
“What’s wrong,my little jacket potato.” he asked her gently in the language of the North British.
“Well,maybe it’s my therapy…I have been recollecting memories of girls teasing me because we had only a tin bath in our house and no bathroom.It was cold going to the lavatory down the backyard as well,especially when I got dysmenorhea………….otherwise known as period pains, when I might be there half an hour.
So I guess I thought I might smell nasty.I am reliving the pain and anguish and as a defense I am projecting my fear onto you,That’s maybe why I was so rude to you.”
“Eeh,by gum,she’s swallowed the Dictionary of Psychoanalysis not to mention the Encarta too”thought Emile their smiling tom cat.”Does she like the Oxford Dictionary?”
“Well,you do smell.Like honey… you smell just the way I like a woman to smell…Natural”
“How would you describe it,my sweet onion pie?”
“Like a cat on my seat ,my honeybum” he answered tenderly yet manfully with his Freudian slip sticking out a mile.
“But surely you have never had intercourse with a cat?” she queried nervously yet longingly.
“No,not sexual intercourse, but I have slept with many female cats and I know well their varying smells,their mews and their claws.”
“Just like me” whispered Emile,” and I like how women smell too.I like perfume..especially Poison and Chanel Nr5″
“So I shall come to Boots with you and I shall buy you some perfume.Then we can have coffee and cake somewhere for a real treat.” Stan told Mary assertively.She kissed his fair white cheek.. now a little red from the sun.He kissed her right ear as it seemed the only part near enough.
“I like coffee and cake,”purred Emile,”And I want a deodorant and some cologne. and a few other things”
“I think I could put you in my handbag “,said Mary kindly….which would be a pleasant change for Emile.They often left him alone in the house though he could drop into Annie’s at any time…and watch her tidying her make up box out or having a bath with lots of foam.Emile adored her,She even had a cat flap put in just for him.
So soon they will be on their way into town in their best clothes.Will Emile sit on a chair or will he stand on Stan’s knee.Wait patiently…. he might break his saucer.
The future is pre-fiction
All All our food is served on clean slaves
