Dive into Pete’s log, an android from planet Hy Man.
His manager, boss, and person of significance is Mex. A woman who was a hero on planet Hy Man capturing men with her thighs of steel. Now on earth, her thighs are more like jelly, squashing a grape is about all she can manage. And while Pete has spent his time trying to understand the difference between a virgin train and a virgin bride. Mex has spent the last month going “cold turkey” not with the Christmas leftovers but with sugar itself.
Please read on…
January 2019-A Trifle Sweet
Woody calls women complicated but not as complicated as Mex and her video. Bunny didn’t call it complicated she called it a pile of cat litter. And after Woody explained to me what cat litter was, I tended to agree with her.
Mex had no idea that we had all watched her video. She was too busy trying not to think about sugar. It wasn’t easy, she dreamt the dreams of an addict, of a Man Spy gone wrong. She sweated and shook until her first cup of coffee in the morning and then had to face the day with only Bunny’s turkey sandwiches to keep her going and no amount of mayonnaise was going to make that fun.
The festive season was open house season for Bunny, who claimed Hogmanay (New Year) was owned by the Scots.
“A time of seeing out the old and bringing in the new,” she said. “With food, booze and friends that not only don’t stand on ceremony but friends that did.”
A ploy if you ask me to get rid of the remains of Christmas turkey which had made its way into every dish imaginable except perhaps for a trifle.
Turkey is not all it’s cracked up to be in fact it reminds me of the sort of whiffy soya I often found in Mex’s fridge after a week away at rebooting camp.
“Home cooked food is the key,” Bunny said rolling handfuls of minced turkey into balls, Mex at first was convinced until asked to stir a pot of bones for stock. It was a stock cube too far and it nearly had her reaching for Bunny’s Toblerone.
Mex was on the verge of mutiny when the first Hogmanay guest arrived. She took one look at Mex’s flustered face and recognized her on YouTube. Apparently, videos of cat litter quality abound on YouTube especially cats and Christmas tree, and Bunny had seen an opening. Mex scaling a Fibre Optic tree behind a cat was making her more money in ads than her dating agency. Bunny was a wiz on the internet.
“You’re the cat on a tree girl, who scaled a Fibre Optic” laughed the guest, “excellent.”
Mex with a confused look offered her a turkey ball then marched back to the kitchen. Peering through the steam, she shouted: “What’s a Fibre Optic?”
Bunny pouring herself and extra-large gin looked up.
“Fibroids Hun are the Bain of woman’s life, my mother, God rest her soul could hardly walk because of them,” she sipped “no, sorry, that’s haemorrhoids. Fibroids are more …how you say, delicate.”
“I see, so climbing them this is possible?’
“Hardly,” said Bunny choking on her gin.
It took Woody whose sense of hearing is on a par with a sheepdog to clear the air and once cleared, it dawned on Mex the reality of her video. For a moment Mex almost lost her resolve, poised by the trifle with a lustful look she turned to Bunny.
“My cat video, you said you’d destroy it.”
“Destroy I don’t think I said that dear.” Said Bunny with a sheepish look.
Mex was speechless a woman as blunt as a woman’s leg razer, she always spoke the truth. And here was Bunny her so-called mentor spinning tales over the rim of her gin.
“Step away from the trifle ma’am” I said, “custard is not the answer.”
Mex caught my eye and dug deep into her Man Spy resolve, I could see beads of sweat form at her brow. With true Planet Hy Man nerve, she picked up the trifle and took it into the living room. A room full of elderly neighbours talking of the good old day when TV was a four-channel affair of knob turning and remote controls were things for landing spaceships on the moon.
“Spaceships on the moons,” laughed Mex dumping the trifle on the table, “how quaint”.
A splurge of sugary cream dribble onto the table and Mex without thinking lifted it with her finger.
“Stop,” I shouted, as Woody made a dive for Mex’s finger missing her completely thanks to Bessie the cat.
Mex's forefinger poised in the air as the sugary cream oozed down the side of her hand said nothing.
“The best thing to do with that,” said an elderly gent “is to lick it, there is nothing a good lick can’t fix."
A few of the others chuckled. Mex, however, remained silent she was at the crossroads of addiction, “to lick or not to lick” she said. Then thrust her hand at Bessie and looked at me.
“Once videoed twice shy,” she muttered.
"Ma'am," I said. "I cannot but concur."