Charlie and Me. The Saga Continues

Charlie and Me. Chapter 3.

Charlie and Me. Chapter 3

aka Bunfight at the OK Tearooms

As you can see, Charlie can be a bit sarky a times. I’ll give you another first rate example of what I sometimes refer to as Chargrilling.

One day she and I stopped in the village of Finchingfield, a regular winner of ‘The best kept village in Essex’ award from some sad people who appear to find this an important decision. (As a secondary aside, all the people I know who live in Finchingfield are as mad as a box of frogs. Completely barking. I mean that as a compliment.) It’s not far from where we live. Charlie was driving, and we decided to have a stop at a tearoom, which is rather attractive in a chocolate-boxy way, for some light refreshments. Charlie anchored up, hauled on the handbrake, took out the ignition key, we both got out, and a VOICE bellowed out.

‘Oi! You can’t park there.’

Oh dear, I thought, here we go. She shouldn’t do this but she’s going to anyway because his being all Lord of the Manor is a behaviour pattern we both dislike. Charlie did the talking; I was just along for the ride. I rested my elbows on the roof of the car, cupped my chin in my hands, and watched events unfold. He really got Chargrilled.

‘You know, if you’re going to make statements like that, you really need to be a bit more precise. Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that I am intending to park here. My car is stationary, I have the keys safely in my pocket like a good girl, so we may safely accept, for the sake of argument, that I can park here, in the sense that I am able to, since I already have.

‘Perhaps you meant that I’m not allowed to park here. Wrong again I fear. I’m not on the pavement. No yellow lines, no kerb markers to tell me I can’t make deliveries between certain times, no supplementary notices anywhere that I can see. So I am allowed to park here.

‘Now if you meant that I shouldn’t park here, at this point we stray deep into moral imperatives. Parking here is against the moral good? That’s a value judgement, and one based on a very shaky premise. And as a free spirit I retain and exercise the right to disagree.’

‘Don’t you try to be clever with me!’

‘Believe me I am not trying to be clever; I simply am. Plus, on a point of clarification, I’m parking just as the Highway Code specifies that I may. Ever read the Highway Code? There’s a new version out. Very, very funny indeed. Ranks with Wodehouse in my eyes. However it has its serious side, as do all great works of humour: The Amises Kingsley and Martin; Jerome K Jerome; all of the Gormenghast trilogy, though my own view is that Titus Alone is a bit weak… But I digress. See now what I mean about a bit of precision in terms? You can get in a lot of trouble with sloppy semantics.’

‘But you’re in front of my house!’

‘Yep. Sure am.’

‘I don’t want your, your ….. filthy car in front of where I live.’

I suspect that ‘filthy’ was the best epithet he could think of on the spur of the moment. The car in question is a highly modified, bright Daytona Orange, 1971 Ford Mustang CobraJet, a 429 cubic inch brute that I imported at great expense from the USA. I got it from a guy in Cleveland, Ohio which by one of those odd coincidences is where the original engine was built. The Daytona Orange respray, with some subtle gold coachlining, was my choice. Charlie wanted black with a flamejob. I vetoed that as vulgar.

Charlie drives this con brio. She very early on discovered the joys of the take-off powerslide, at which I have to say she truly excels, much to the delight of Terry our local tyre dealer who will be able to retire soon at the age of about 45.

I was a bit hurt since only that morning it had taken me several hours to wash this behemoth, apply the Simonize, and polish the acres of expensively re-chromed brightwork and slightly non-period chromed TurboVec alloy wheels, which are an absolute bugger to keep clean.

I let Charlie get on with the job.

‘I feel for you, I really do. In your shoes, or as it may be (she glanced down at his feet) in your tartan slippers, I probably wouldn’t want that either. Alas, life’s one long round of bitter disappointments, isn’t it? And, for the sake of scrupulous accuracy, I should point out that I washed this car only this morning (she was being disingenuous here, but I let it lie) so it’s hardly filthy is it? Now give it a rest and stop wasting the good air that God gave us.’

‘That’s blasphemy that is!’

‘Oh I don’t think so. A contemptuous or profane act , or utterance, or writing, concerning God or a sacred entity? Really? When I just acknowledged his bounteous gifts, including the air we breathe and which you so wastefully are heating up and spouting? Also, I have a theory that God, should he exist, is probably big enough and tough enough to take it on the celestial chin when people have a pop at him. And let’s be frank here, he does have a few sanctions up his sleeve, not least of which is me burning in hell for all eternity if he thinks I’ve been a bit gobby. He really doesn’t need inadequates like you springing to his defence.

‘So how about you go away and let me live the rest of my mortal life in relative peace while Satan gets things up to gas mark 9 in preparation for my posthumous arrival? It’s even, tragically from your point of view, a strong possibility that I’ll see you there. I understand it’s pretty informal, so don’t dress for dinner. You won’t need those slippers, or that rather nasty cardigan. Staying warm will be the least of your worries, especially with me in town. Just imagine. We can argue, and I’ll win, for all time. For you there will be an eternity of losing face. The toasting forks, screams of tortured souls, burning lakes of brimstone, nostrils full of filth, will seem like a soft option, believe me. You’ll wish you’d never been dead.

‘Now, it’s been very pleasant talking to you, but the rest of my day is beckoning me. So fuck off , you arrogant, self-satisfied little prick.’

She’s good, isn’t she?