World of Hedges

“The hedge needs cutting,” said Finch.

“Why is there a hedge here in the middle of the High Street? This is a High Street isn’t it, not a planet where shops have evolved as a lifeform in their own right?”

“It is a High Street, Asher, with normal shops, not alien life forms that have somehow evolved to sell pans and pants to passing pedestrians.”

“But why the hedge?” I repeated.

“More importantly, said Finch, “Why hasn’t it been cut?”

The hedge was indeed overgrown, over 12 feet high and sprawling across the street like a leylandii on growth hormones.

“Ask me then,” said Finch.

“Ask you what? What planet are we on?”

“Astra Landbrolec, 4^th planet from the sun in the Lanastra system, Ganania Galaxy, bottom left. Try again.”

“Er, okay, what sort of hedge is it?”

“It’s a type of leylandii, fed on a special growth hormone, not that, try again.”

“Where are all the people?”

“Shops haven’t opened yet, try again.”

“Why is there a hedge down the middle of the High Street?”

“Good question Asher, well done. What are hedges for?”

“Well, I had sparrows nesting in the hedge in my garden. At least I think they were sparrows. I don’t really do birds.”

“They were Cuckoo Vultures, not sparrows.”

“Is that a species?”

“Not an Earth species. They fly from planet to planet, lay eggs in the nest of the closest thing to a birdlike species they can find. The eggs hatch, the baby vulture is raised by the parent birds until it is ready to leave the nest, then it grows into an all-consuming giant vulture the size of St Pauls cathedral and lays waste to all lifekind in the vicinity.”

“I’m pretty sure they only grew into sparrows. I’d have remembered a giant all-consuming vulture the size of St Pauls massacring masses.”

“It’s the reason I met you, Asher. I was there getting rid of the cuckoo.”

“And there are cuckoos in this hedge?” I said, feeling I was losing track.

“My point is, people grow hedges to keep some people out and other people in.”

“Why would they want to keep people out of a High Street?”

“Have you seen the shops.”  I shook my head. We walked up to the shops.  They were like the shops back on Earth, except the things they were selling. “Are those solid gold  underpants?” I said, pointing to a window display.

“Yes, this is Donald Macs, the most exclusive department store in the universe. Their gold underpants are their most notorious item, they cost  234,500 Starmers per pair.”

“Aren’t they uncomfortable. Gold isn’t known for having a lot of give.”

“It’s not about comfort Asher, it’s fashion.”

“I’m guessing there are different shops for the poor.”

As we were speaking a giant hot air balloon floated over the hedge. The balloon was immense, with a massive basket, packed with people.

“That’s not very sci-fi,” I said.

“Space travel is rarely sci-fi Asher,” Finch said.  “It’s mostly hanging round in grotty spaceports, drinking raw alcohol and trying not to notice the smell.”

As we were talking, the balloon landed, and a large group of people clambered out of the basket and ran towards the shops.

“Are they customers?” I said

“Good lord, no Asher. They couldn’t afford to shop here,” Finch said. “They’re the staff.”

“Why do they have to fly over the hedge to get to work.”

“So that the rich can live completely separate lives from the poor. Only seeing them behind counters, serving in restaurants, so they completely dismiss them from their minds.”

“Shall we look round the shops now they’re open?” I said. 

“Let’s not rush, we’ve got all day.”

“I rather assumed we’d come here to go shopping. What do you propose doing instead?”

“Crawling through the hedge.”

“Crawling through the hedge! Why?”

“Because we don’t have a hot air balloon and there’s no other way through.”  So saying, forward went up to the hedge and started exploring for gaps.  Eventually he called out. “Over here after, we can get through here.”  He pointed to a thick patch of hedge.

“I don’t see a gap,” I said. 

“Not there,” he said, up here.” He pointed high up in the hedge, above head-height, where, indeed, the hedge was less thick.

“Are you serious? You want me to climb up.”

“It’s the only way through, Asher.”

“When I woke up this morning I had no idea that I’d be hitch-hiking half way across the universe just to climb through a hedge.”

I hadn’t climbed a tree since I was ten years old, nevertheless it was straightforward, indeed it looked as if many others had passed through the hedge this way. 

The shops on the other side of the hedge were very different from those on the other side of the High Street. It wasn’t a plush shopping arcade like we had left, just a ramshackle collection of grotty huts.  We looked at some of the goods on sale.

“Old ladies pants, I said. “who would want to buy old ladies pants?”

“Look at the price,” said Finch.

“Two chavs, is that expensive?”

“It’s cheap, Asher. “There are a thousand chavs to one Starmer. This is merchandise for the extreme poor.”

“What are you doing Finch?”

“I’m buying some old ladies pants.”

“Why?”

“Right,” said Finch, newly armed with a pile of old ladies pants, which he thrust into his satchel. “Shall we get some food.”

“There’s a stall here,” I said. “Selling rats on a stick.”

“Or there’s a stall over there selling hot rats in a bun.”

“Have we really travelled half way across the universe to buy old ladies pants and eat dead rats in a bun?”

“There’s a slightly higher-class of eatery back in the main High Street. Shall we try there.”

“Anything that doesn’t sell rats,” I said.

We returned through the hedge and found a café selling food, which was more than edible.   After we’d eaten we browsed the stores properly. Not only were there gold pants, there were gold saucepans, gold coffee pots, gold toilets, even gold slippers.”

“They’re into gold here aren’t they?”

“They like gold because the poor can’t afford it. They don’t care that the pans are heavy to lift, or the toilets difficult to install, snobbery is everything.”

“Are we going to buy anything?” I said, after a few hours of browsing.  “Only we’ve come a long way and all we’ve got to show for it is some old ladies pants.”

“Patience, Asher. We’re just biding time until the stores close.”

Sometimes it’s best to let Finch’s logic be, questioning it can be the logical equivalent of poking a rabid dog with a stick.

Eventually the shops closed, the customers left, and some minutes later we watched the staff leave the store and sail off in their balloon.

“Right,” said Finch. “Let’s break in.”

So saying he played with the lock of the shop that sold the golden underpants.

“Don’t they have alarms in these places,” I said nervously.

“Don’t worry, Asher, I have an Alarm-o-Off, it switches off all alarms in the vicinity.”  He held up a sonic device that wouldn’t have been out of place in an episode of Dr Who.

Finch got through the door easily, and even as the alarm sounded its first note, he waved his sonic and it stopped.  He knew what he wanted and rushed over to the golden underpants display.

“This is they, Asher,” he said. Sometimes I think that Finch goes out of his way to sound more alien than he really is, then I remember that Finch actually is pretty darn alien.

He took the old ladies pants out of his satchel and begun swapping them for the golden pants currently on display.

“If you’re hoping nobody will notice the golden pants have gone, you’re mistaken Finch,” I said.  “People aren’t going to pay hundreds of thousands of Starmers for a pair of old ladies pants.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Asher,” he said. “This is this particular galaxy’s equivalent of Harrods, people assume that anything highly-priced is the height of fashion. They’ll merrily hand over their millions for any item on display.”

“And what are you going to do with the gold pants? Melt them down and give the money to the poor.”

“No, I’ve always wanted a pair of gold pants. They’re the reason we came here.”