Friday, April 28, 2006

Lipstick. Several shades.

It's on evenings like these that the fish and chip men make their fortunes, observed the Group Captain, as the golden hour lit up the examination room and the music of Jack Hylton wafted in through the cod-French windows from the radiogram in the Bren Carrier outside.

Marcella Purcell ventured so far as to open a bottle in memory of her musical ancestor, as the selfsame light made highlights on the lenses of her goggles. Her gloves were on the telephone table; her mind was on the events unfolding in the small room upstairs.

Eventually Crawfax, the base surgeon, made an appearance, apologising and insisting that any of us might have made a better job of the procedure, while at the same time not a little proudly displaying the results of his labours. Three eggs, intact, with faces already visible through their gelatinous outer skins.

He flopped down on the settee, tired out, and accepted a drink.

"She bit me," he said.


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