Charlie and Me. The Saga Continues

Charlie and Me. Chapter 4

This chapter is dedicated to Audra MacLaren, because she's my mate, and because she gave me a lot of help getting my blog off the ground.

Charlie and Me. Chapter 4

Charlie gets the munchies

Where was I? Oh yes, in the restaurant garden. Just then, a waitress came over and asked if we'd like something to eat. Addressing the question to Charlie.

Now if you looked at Charlie you'd imagine she subsisted on a diet of camomile tea, carrot sticks, and cocaine. If the word 'willowy' didn't exist, the world would invent it for Charlie, because she is very slim though much too nicely formed and sexy for the word 'anorexic' to apply. Yet she eats as if there is no tomorrow. I can dip my head into the nosebag and acquit myself with honour, but this is another field in which Charlie can leave me standing.

Charlie is idiosyncratically very polite with serving staff, particularly women. She once did a stint as a waitress (she made hundreds of pounds in tips from middle aged businessmen, not surprisingly) and the experience has rubbed off on her. Her natural aggression goes on the backburner. Other things are still simmering, though.

'Yes, please. I'd like a steak,' said Charlie.

'How would you like it cooked?'

'Please just walk the cow in here, cut off a slice, shine a torch on it. If it's still twitching, I'm OK with that, thank you.'

The waitress paused, looked up from her order pad, suddenly smiled. 'So that would be blue?'

'Very pale blue, please.'

'And with it? Salad?' She paused again to smile. She had a really great smile. 'No, I guess not.'

'Nope. Melted cheese on top, please. Lots of cheese. I mean lots of cheese. Brie if you have it, if not a really good strong Cheddar. Two fried eggs. And chips. Lots of chips. I'd best have two portions. Please. Oh, and loads of mayonnaise. You might be better off bringing me the whole jar. Please.'

'Where do you put it all? I hate you,' smiled the waitress.

Charlie's diet would make most people's arteries clang shut at the very thought of it. She loves all the things that are supposed to make you fat. It doesn't work with her. I once watched her eat four McDonald's quarterpounder meals in one sitting. On a point of order Mr Chairman, that's four. Going large with that. Once a threequarterpounder Wendyburger, higher than it was wide, which came with three portions of fries. You'd expect that packing so much food at one time into such a lissom frame would make her look like an anaconda that just swallowed its annual pig. I suspect her metabolism would be worthy of detailed scientific investigation.

Lissom. That's a nice word isn't it? Sorry, wandering a bit again.

Don't get me wrong. She's not a junk food junkie; she likes good food, and she's an exceptionally talented cook, but like most of us she has a place in her life for KFC or Burger King or a dish of mushy peas at a market stall. I'm good in the kitchen too, though Charlie possibly wins again here. Possibly. It's nip and tuck.

But she does like red meat. I like chicken, and when we eat out I usually go for seafood or fish. It's marvellous eating fish cooked by someone else and knowing your house isn't going to smell like a haddock smokery for the next couple of days. Call me old fashioned, but the smell of cooked fish in your house is not a good one when you've got a hangover. And as you are aware, Charlie does get hangovers to be reckoned with.

(If you don't know about Charlie and hangovers, then you haven't been keeping up with current events, have you? You need to read 'Charlie Gets a Hangover,' which you can also find here on Wattpad.)

I wandered off again. You will just have to live with it. That's it; you just will have to learn to live with it. Stop reading now if you can't cope. We know each other a bit. I'll understand.

Back to the restaurant. While we ate, I explained Sylvester's problem to Charlie.

'He sounds a right wanker. We'd better do him.'

Sylvester gulped until I quickly added that 'doing him' would be non-lethal. It was an odd reaction of his. I speak to strangers all the time, and have yet to meet any random killers. Sylvester seemed to be fretting that he'd met two in the space of about ten minutes.

'Charlie and I both have unfortunate names; she is Miss Charlotte Chaplin, by the way, and got tired of the moustache and bowler hat jokes. We have enough time on our hands, and enough resources, to help out other unfortunates. It's a hobby we share, like we share winding each other up.

'So, this wanker. What's he called?'

'Len.'

'That fucking figures.'

'Yes, thank you Charlie. Where does he live?'

'Hampshire. Petersfield.'

For reasons I won't go into, I know the place pretty well. I checked my watch. 'If we go now we can be there and back before dark. I need to see his house.'

Charlie wailed, 'But I haven't finished my pudding yet!'

'Well gerrit dahn yer neck while I go for a leak and pay the bill. Then we head for the car.'

'Look, fuckwit, you can't rush a pudding this good.'

'Oh for goodness sake. OK, I'll tie a knot in it till you've finished.'

'Thanks, that's very considerate of you. You're still a fuckwit, though.'

'Stop talking, get eating. My back teeth are afloat. I'm in pain. So just get on with that chocolate based heart attack on a plate will you please?'

'Fuckwit.'

'No I'm not. Because you get to undo the knot.'

'Not bad. Not bad at all,' she said with admiration. 'But you're still a fuckwit.'

'Just get eating for fuck's sake!'

Sylvester looked at Charlie, looked at me, and shook his head in disbelief.