"But, when he turned up, the Smelly One seemed different. No, not cleaner – oh, don’t be silly! I wasn't at first sure what it was. He had – dare I say this of a man who smells like something exceptionally smelly placed alongside something of even greater smelliness? – softened towards me"
The Smelly God returned to Mordan House. You remember him? The electrician with the bum that, I suspect, is regularly anointed, cleansed and pacified by fig leaves, and who no doubt employs a puffer: that is, someone paid to squirt talcum powder onto his butt hole after each and every visit to Mr Crap’s shitting emporium! Why? Oh, reader, because of the excessive charges. Yep, another overcharging cowboy!
But I don’t know why I’ve become so fixated with my electrician’s ablutions – I think I’m just confused as to what he does with the vast sums of money he takes from the lip-biting shoulder-shrugging redheads of this world. He certainly does not put it into his pits! The Smelly God’s pits are unviolated by anything that comes anywhere close to fragrance. God’s pits are on the rough-and-ready side of horrendous.
But, when he turned up, the Smelly One seemed different. No, not cleaner – oh, don’t be silly! I wasn't at first sure what it was. He had – dare I say this of a man who smells like something exceptionally smelly placed alongside something of even greater smelliness? – softened towards me.
No, you unperceptive reader, do not go anywhere near that thought that you currently hold! I swear that thought's booby trapped and will rip the corpus callosum right out of you! I know what's in your mind! No, no, no!
He was a little shifty and uncomfortable too. Could it be true, I wondered? Was he kind of playing with his shoe against the floorboard as he talked to me? Almost coy-like?
Oh, sweet heavenly Mary and all the blessed celestial choirs of Paradise, say it isn’t true!
Why didn’t he looked me in the eye? The last time he called round he looked me straight in the eye, as if daring me to tell him that I wasn’t stupid, and daring me to say “How much, my oderous little friend! You must be attempting to take the smelly pee-pee out of me!” But this time around he wouldn't look at me. Not for a moment. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it at all. In fact, I didn’t like it one smelly little bit!
"Why didn’t he looked me in the eye? The last time he called round he looked me straight in the eye, as if daring me to tell him that I wasn’t stupid, and daring me to say 'How much, my oderous little friend! You must be attempting to take the smelly pee-pee out of me!' But this time around he wouldn't look at me. Not for a moment"
So, this is how Smell Boy got to be back here at Mordan House. After the goings-on of the previous night, I drove down to the local town, told Le Smell that the fuses were still “jumping out and going bang at the same time, but then jumping back in again afterwards, but without going bang”. He listened attentively, hummed and mm-ed and uh-huh-ed, and then said he’d follow me down in his van. And follow me he did. After arriving and being shifty whenever he spoke to me, he then buried himself in my cupboard under the stairs …
Behave, reader, behave! I won’t tell you again!
… eventually surfaced and then said: “I didn’t do a good job for you last time. Too quick. I hold my hands up. So I’m gonna sort it for you – free-of-charge, you understand. The box is old and the connections are poor. I’ll put in a new one. I’ll make it safe today and then come back again and sort it properly.”
I’m not sure what he was doing while he said this, but I know I was standing there with a face like a camel. My eyes were agog, and my chin and mouth were all just hanging down and looking broken and swollen or something. I may have dribbled slightly. I’m not entirely sure.
He glanced at me and I think he was shocked at my camel-face, so I quickly tried to reorganise my features into something closer to my bog-standard 'breathtaking and delicious-all-over' face.
He grunted and perused the floor as if it were a live wire. He looked, in fact, as if he was about to say something else. Something that was uncomfortable for him.
Oh, veiled prophet look down on such a one as me and spare me, spare all of me, even the cellulite and the dinky navel that doesn’t really go in or out, just a bit of both really, even my appendix that, lets face it, does Scooby-Doo for the greater good of the bod. Spare all of it! Spare all of me the attentions of the Smelly God! You and you alone are the true God, he’s just smelly, he’s just …
“Well, I’ll be going then. Be back in about two days. Suit you?”
Suit me? I’ll say! And so I said so: “Uh, yes, that suits me.”
As he was making for his van I felt the desire to say something. I don’t know why. Maybe because I’d been so cruel about him in my head. So I blubbered a kind of: “You must think I’m really stupid with these things. It’s probably something that anyone else could fix in a flash, eh?”
All I heard him say as he opened the door of his van and climbed in was: “Forget it. I don’t think you’re stilly at all.”
As he drove away, I suspect it was with my camel-face – and an angry camel into the bargain! - that I watched him go. Stilly? As in Stilly Stephanie? The nickname given to me by my interfering mother?
Her hands on hips, chest pushed out, cloak flapping in the breeze, I sensed that somewhere out there the Silver Smirker, as I liked to call the old witch, was smirking and interfering in my life again!