Feckenham Swarberry Continued (read at your peril!)
Elizabeth Lotofap entered the Frog and Radiator. Outside the night was chilly. Inside the reception was warm. Spotting Ethel Blowvalve nursing a large rum and coke whilst conversing with Millie Mead, Rose Buckshot and Violet Springheel, the Matron at Muckleford Hospital cut a swathe through the public bar like a galleon crossing the channel. Herman Cole, the owner of the local garden centre whose parents once sailed the seas themselves having left Jamaica to find their fortunes within Albion, licked his lips upon seeing the woman move in such a stately and frankly sexy fashion across the public house floor. Herman, like many a black male, liked a woman whose arse formed a shelf of significant flesh. With regards to Matron Lotofap’s, her backside could have supported several tankards of ale but also a chipmunk supping larger.It was less a shelf, more a bookcase. Like her friend, Ethel, Elizabeth Lotofap was also blessed with breasts that could suffocate amorous males whilst in the act of frenzied fornication. She was, not to put too fine a point on it, large.
Upon seeing her move from door to table, Arthur Bentwhistle called out, ‘a glass of the usual Lizzy?’ Arthur was the only man, the only person, in fact, allowed to call her Lizzy. Rumour had it that on more than one occasion, according to Millie Mead, the medical madam had given Arthur the benefit of her healing hand. More pertinently not just her hand but her whole voluminous self. Of course, I wouldn’t want to spread idle gossip so please don’t repeat.
‘Yes, please Arthur.’
Settling herself down by her friends, Elizabeth Lotofap placed her handbag by her ankle having first taken a small dark cheroot from a silver case. As Arthur brought her drink to the table so he produced a lighter from his pocket. ‘Allow me,’ he said lighting the torpedo-shaped cheroot that the medical woman held between puckered lips. She took a breath inhaling deeply before exhaling a small cloud that loitered above her head. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said.
Picking up her Rum Punch, pursing her lips before taking a sip, she began to recount an incident that had taken place that very day.
‘Today Horace Cupletick wandered into the A&E department of Muckleford General Hospital wearing an embarrassed look and pushing in front of himself a vacuum cleaner. The hosepipe of which was still firmly attached to his proud manhood. The implements pip hung limp like a plastic elephant’s trunk. Not his penis though, which looked the colour, indeed the size of, an eggplant. Apart from a hastily adorned rain Mac and a pair of moth-eaten carpet slippers, Horace was naked. His stick thin hairless legs stuck out like pale bamboo poles.’
‘He’s such a perv,’ giggled Rose.
‘He made advances once,’ said Violet.
‘Lucky you,’ said Ethel sarcastically.
‘Not t’ me,’ exclaimed Violet violently, ‘he pinched my old mum’s arse!’
‘He never!’ laughed Rose.
‘On my word,’ confirmed Violet.
Matron Lotofap regained her audience’s attention with a mild mannered, genteel cough.
‘One would have expected the staff, if not the general public, to perhaps be both shocked and amused at seeing a grown man wearing a soiled Macintosh and a Dyson but as this is a reasonably regular occurrence no one batted an eyelid.’
The caregiver took another sip from her drink and then another puff from her cheroot.
‘Evening Horace,’ I said whilst opening the plastic curtains and ushering the unkempt gent to a waiting bed, ‘Had a slight accident whilst doing the chores, have we?”
She exhaled another plume of smoke that drifted ceilingward.
‘Yip,’ said Horace, ‘And then there’s the apples.’
‘Apples?’ says I.
‘Yip, apples,’ says Horace.
‘He looked sort of impish at this point, mildly confused as if not sure how to impart the information he needed to. Then he leant forward and whispered into my ear.’
‘What did ‘e say,’ asked Ethel with breath more baited than a fisherman’s hook.
Elizabeth Lotofap raised her hand seeking a moments silence.
‘Oh, c’mon Elizabeth,’ said Rose, ‘spill the beans.’
Silence continued. The matron’s face carried an enigmatic smile.
‘Elizabeth!’ groaned Violet, ‘tell us what he said.
‘Horace Cupletick informed me there were apples sitting within his rectum to which I enquired, ‘How on earth did they get up there?’
‘And, did he tell you?’ asked Ethel.
‘Not exactly, no. He said…”I ate ‘em!”’
‘To which I, of course, replied, ‘You ate them?’
‘Yip,’ he said smiling like a naughty schoolboy.
‘I then enquired how many apples there were?’
‘Three,’ he said.
‘Three?’ I queried somewhat dumbstruck.
‘Yip,’ he conceded looking pleased with himself, ‘Three.’
‘And then they, fully ingested, miraculously reformed themselves into whole virgin fruit?’
‘Yip,’ he concluded.
‘Bend over Mister Cupletick,’ I said undoing an industrial size tube of KY jelly whilst donning reinforced latex gloves, ‘This will almost certainly hurt you more than it will me.’