Miguel

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“Could I have ten pounds of Maris Piper spuds, which is precisely 4.535923700000001 kilogrammes, a few Henglish happles and a nice, crisp Savoy cabbage, please, Mr. Fishmonger?” Miguel Button said to the pharmacy assistant at the chemist's counter in Boots.

“I'm sorry, Sir,” the pharmacy assistant replied, “but as it says in plain English on the sign angin' above my 'ead this is a bleedin' chemists. We sell various medications to soothe and in some cases cure all manner of 'uman ills, and we also process prescriptions, but we do not sell vegetables of any description.

If you go out of the front door of the shop, turn left onto the 'Igh Street, walk approximately thirty yards and turn left into the alleyway at the side of Smiths you'll come to the greengrocers' shop opposite the bus station. A greengrocer, if you are new to this country - whether you're a legal or an illegal immigrant, I don't give a monkeys - is a purveyor of fresh fruit and vegetables, or not so fresh fruit and vegetables, depending on where you shop. They will sell you the items you require. Alternatively you can follow the 'Igh Street until you come to the open air market, or turn left at the traffic lights and walk per'aps an 'undred and fifty yards to the supermarket. Oh, and never, ever call me Mr. Fishmonger again, I don't bloody like it. I'm a proper woman, me, do you understand?”

“I think so, sweet pea,” Miguel replied. “But for your hinformation I am not a himmigrant – Henglish born and bred, Hi ham. Good day!”

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Ten minutes later he walked into the Dry Cleaners. “Hello, Madam,” he said to the rather portly assistant. “I'm hinterested in buying a propeller and a few gaskets for my busted Lohner L seaplane which I crash landed on yonder lake. Could you by hany chance supply me with the hitems I require? I would also like ten pounds of Maris Piper spuds, a nice, crispy Savoy cabbage and a couple or three pounds of thoroughly Henglish Happles – I don't want tasteless French shit.”

“I'm not a Madam, I'm a Sir,” the assistant replied. “And this is a Dry Cleaners. Have you considered going to Specsavers? I think you might need your eyes testing - it's just across the road. If that doesn't solve your problem maybe you'll consider going to the NHS Walk-in centre up the market and getting your head tested.....”

“There is nothing whatsoever wrong with my heyes, young woman!” Miguel snapped. “I ham a trifle batty, though, but no battier than your average Tory politician. It makes life very difficult hindeed when you're a bit doolalley tap, I'm telling you. Do you have the hitems I require or do you hintend to waste my time hall bleeding day?”

“No, on both counts.”

“Very well, thank you and good day to you, Madam.”

“Bye.”

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A while later the increasingly irate Miguel entered the pet shop and wandered to the rear of the premises where he spent an inordinate amount of time staring at the colourful tropical and cold water fish swimming around in their brightly lit tanks. “Can I help you Sir?” the shop assistant said.

“Quite possibly you can, Sir,” Miguel replied. “I'm looking for an infeasibly large codfish or possibly a gigantic halibut with which I plan to beat a very rude shop assistant's brains in. Do you perchance stock such piscine giants?”

“Erm..... We're right out of large codfish and halibut at the moment, I'm afraid,” the assistant replied.

“I had a pet halibut once, his name was Brian Hey-ho Silver. A little darling, he was, he could whistle the National Anthem and recite the Encyclopedia Britannica backwards standing on his head, but the poor mite contracted Aids when he slept with a Belgian pastry chef, and he died a few days before his sixth birthday.”

“I bet he did. And you called me Sir. I'm a woman - look, I have titties to prove it.”

“Tiddies? Tiddies? Those aren't tiddies, young man, they're moobs, you're a sodding bloke!”

“I am not!”

“Do you sell happles and potatoes and seaplane spares and Savoy cabbage?”

“No, we bloody well don't. Look, there's a Fish and Chip shop around the corner, maybe they'll be willing to sell you an infeasibly large codfish. Are you a complete fruit and nut case, by the way?”

“No, as a matter of fact I'm not, I'm just a bit tapped. Cheerio.....”

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A couple of minutes later Miguel wandered into the NHS Walk-in centre at the top of the market. “Hi, baby, I'm Miguel Button,” he said. “I want ten pound of Maris Piper spuds, a Savoy cabbage, a propeller for a Lohner L seaplane and a few gaskets for the hengine and a couple of pounds of lovely happles. Oh, and a massive codfish or a halibut to beat someone's brains out with in a thoroughly hamusing manner, but not one who goes by the name of Brian Hey-ho Silver – I would find that too hupsetting. Can you provide me with the hitems on my shopping list, Miss, or are you going to mess me about hall bleeding day like the rest of the retail staff in this crummy little town?”

“Mess you about?” the middle aged transvestite receptionist with Love and Hate crudely tattooed on his huge knuckles said in a deep, masculine voice. “I don't know about mess you about, sweetie, but I'm willing to mess you up. You look like a very nice boy, and there aren't many nice boys around here..... I knock off in ten minutes, do you fancy walking an attractive slip of a girl like me home? I'll cook you a fabulous Spag Bol and open a bottle of Blue Nun, and maybe we can have a bit of rumpy pumpy after I've watched the Eastenders omnibus, if you're up for it. Either that or I could put your name down for a check-up from the neck-up. What do you say, big boy?”

Miguel looked around to check if anyone had overheard the conversation. “Erm..... What's your name, Miss?” he said.

“It's Samantha Cockgobbler, darling.”

“Yeah, all right then, you're on - I'll wait for you by the chippie.”

“I simply adore nutters,” Samantha sighed.”