Ergo Eggers

Seriously short of short short stories. Story writer, poet and starving scribe of English descent (falling over so much less these days) will cover anything you like from Credit crunch to Sunday lunch, Gordon Brown to Eva von Braun, Karl Marx to stripey underpants, Stockhausen to Waterman, Raymond Briggs to Raymond Chandler, Botticelli to vaseline, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Beck to Becks, black is black I want my country back. Damon Albarn to colonic irrigation. Malaria, TB, asylum seekers, gold diggers, Mafia in Brighton, yappies, tramps and thieves, vast numbers of welded on body parts - spare a little Cher for me.
But let's cut to the chase here. The point, the reason, the focus, the strap line. There are too many men in my life - to one I'm a husband and the other I'm a wife (and they both eat shredded wheat). Words, words, what are words worth? I wandered lonely as a goat, that dug some holes in Basingstoke. Alas, poor Shakespeare, I knew him well enough to know that he had so much trouble writing The Tempest at the same time as undergoing sex change surgery. Evidence? But should suffer a sea change into something rich and strange…
I'm a qualified clinical psychologist you know. I can create problems for anyone. Celebrated celibates and celebrities a speciality. Hey, we're all going on a summer holiday! I specialise in free-flowing extrapolation of overheard snippets of real lives of passing strangers. (Overheard not two minutes ago.) "Do you know what Rosie does when she gets excited?". Hmmmm. Now is Rosie a cute little girl? Or a one-legged Lituanian opportunist pole dancer? The answer must be that when Rosie gets excited she either 1) emits green projectile vomit in all directions a la Carrie Fisher, or 2) transforms her freshly acquired copy of The Spectator into a more than acceptable didgeridoo. Rosie looms into view and rumbles past pierced, pissed, lewd and tattooed. (My illusions shattered.)

A small aircraft has just flown overhead. Its engines created a sound just like the opening electric guitar riff of 'Get It On'. (Before that amazing drum fill cascades into the body of the song.) I’m just getting off on images of concertina’d mini coopers, Mickey Finn and Steve Peregrine Took, essence of patchouli oil, feeling of tight crushed velvet loon pants chafing on the number fifty three bus to Bracknell, back in the ‘adolescentland’ of spots and boils and ‘Old Spice’. When…. “Boom!” A skateboarder miss-times jump up onto wall opposite. Catches wheels and testicles on anti traffic metal post. Deposites blood and mucus on my Guardian Literary review - just missing Francis Bacon. His i-pod still emitting Brian Wilson in mono. Whatever next? The front page ‘Bush advocates return to family values.’ I prefer Clinton and his soggy cigar. Bham! My waiter's just exploded! Do I get the job?!

Patsy

Patsy was really tired... but happy.
The outcome of the case had been most satisfactory. The guy had got 3 years. She certainly made sure of that. Stalkers and abusers.. cases of family violence.. this was her stock in trade. The corners of her mouth turned up gently as she remembered the events of the evening. She closed her eyes and allowed the gentle rocking motion of the train to relax her. The compartment was now crowded full of theatre goers on their way home - Over dressed and full of Bonhomie.
After a long day in court , she believed in unwinding in style.
Her junior barrister, Thomas had been utterly charming. When he suggested they stay on in the restaurant for a meal, she decided to break protocol and go with the flow. She was 44 glamorous and much enjoyed the admiring glances of both men and women as they passed by. Thomas was a chiselled and teutonic 30 year old in a Paul Smith suit.
Patsy allowed herself to fantasize a little - To extrapolate the true story of the evening. There had been only one single point of physical contact. Thomas had touched her arm as he helped her into the black cab.
(Her husband would be waiting at the station to pick her up in their 4-wheel drive.) Gradually the lounge bar conversation subsided and she snuggled down into the corner, first making sure her arm was through the handle of her handbag. She noted that there was only one other woman in the compartment. She smoothed down her skirt, before deciding to tuck her legs up underneath her.
Oysters..... Oysters and champagne. The atmosphere was much more exciting than her normal provincial Friday night meal. When did she last get tipsy alone with a smooth talking, god looking, virile young man who hung on her every word?
She dreamt herself back into that black cab on the gleaming piazza.
Instead of saying goodbye, Thomas smiled and knowingly, got into the cab next to her and without hesitation instructed the driver to drive to Victoria Station ....... slowly through the park.
It had become very warm in the back of the cab so Patsy took off her voluminous cape and laid it across her lap.
It seemed natural to snuggle down beside him.
She was not surprised when he reached up slowly and touched one of her earings. She looked up into his eyes and didn't object when he moved his head down to brush his lips over hers. The word "Golly" came to mind.
The excitement had made her shiver a little and so she drew her coat around them as a blanket. By now they were cruising slowly through Green Park. The cab came slowly to a halt. It was very dark amidst the trees. The driver got out, stopped the clock and walked off to have a cigar! Patsy felt elated. And smiled up at Thomas.. before taking his hand and placing on her breast. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
Patsy didn't answer, she just reached under the blanket and tried to locate his trouser zipper. She stared wide eyed up into his smiling face and foraged carefully until she located warmth in her hand and the metal teeth of a zip chafing against her wrist....
There was a gasp.
"WHAT THE HELL?"
An unfamiliar man's voice startled Patsy. What was happening?
The bright lights in the rain carriage hurt her eyes.
Men were shouting, laughing , learing, goading....
She was aware her skirt had ridden up and her first reaction was to smooth it down.
But...... Oh GOD! Her left arm had gone to sleep and was still jammed between the handles of her handbag. But much worse,............
Her right hand was attached by her bracelet to a portly middle-aged man's trouser belt........It must have got tangled up as she moved restlessly in her dreams.....