Dive into Pete’s log, an android from planet Hy Man.
He has a way of looking at things that not only makes you sit up; but ponder a world without drivers, teachers, and voting booths. Pete is still trying to understand the difference between English spoken by the English, English spoken by the Scottish and English spoken by those, not from England or Scotland.
Mex, his boss tries to help but as gravity is playing havoc with her hormones. She spends a lot her time feeling hot, cold and then all “weird and tearful.”
Please read on…
“February is a month never spoken about on Planet Hy Man,” I said to Bunny.
Bunny a master of multi-tasking was spring cleaning and listening. While Mex was sitting on the couch, feet up trying to get to grips with the Radio Times.
Bunny muttered a “hmmm.”
“We used to celebrate it when men were more than footmen and enjoyed festivals, dressing up and coming home to a woman pleased to see them.’ I said. “Back in the days when automation was on the cusp of existence.”
“March, on the other hand, is a month of cleaning,” muttered Mex.
“And what the hell is a footman? said Bunny. Working up a shine on the tv screen.
“March,” I continued. “Is a month of celebration for us on Planet Hy man. It is the anniversary of the first egg fertilization and the slow decline of men and their festivals.”
“It’s celebrated by wearing giant Petri dishes on one’s head,” muttered Mex turning the magazine upside down, the TV guide really threw her.
Bunny stopped ‘what’?
“And for those who can’t afford a Petri dish anything that looks like a large Petri dish,” I said.
“Aye right.” Muttered Bunny returning to her polishing.
“A month where women are “tickled pink” and “spring into action at the drop of a hat,” I said.
“Or pertinent dish if you want to get technical.” Said Mex with a flick of a page.
“You’re taking the piss.” Said Bunny.
“The first day of March is spent filling one’s Petri dish with freebies. The markets are free, and the lower level Building of Opulence is open to all.”
“Women go crazy.” Muttered Mex.
“I find that hard to believe.” Said Bunny.
“And create such a mess that it takes the rest of the month to clean up,” I said.
“March is a month hated by the cleaning team,” muttered Mex rotating the new page with a confused look.
Bunny stopped in her tracks, “wait a minute, you have a building called Opulence?”
“Well yes,” I said.
“Why would you call a building Opulent.” Said Bunny.
‘Figure of speech, Mam”.
“It more a statement,” said Mex tossing the magazine aside with disinterest.
“Well, opulence, it’s not for everyone I guess.”
Bunny admired her polished TV. “Yes, we all know that,” she said flicking imaginary dust from the top. “But what is opulence in your world?”
“How would I know?”
Bunny looked at her.
“Anything that is in the building of opulence Mam,” I said.
“And what is that?” Said Bunny.
“I don’t know.” Sighed Mex. “I have only been to the Room with a View for orders. I am not a voted in. I am only allowed up the back entrance.”
Bunny moved onto the door surveying the finger marks, she let Izzy in. “I have spent the last month trying to understand a world where men are footman; whatever that is.”
“Men who stand to attention mam, and retrieves things, sort of like a… retriever…”
Bunny eyed me with the sort of look she called cryptic “really?”
Izzy barked, jumped up on Mex lap his favourite place.
“We don’t have dogs on planet Hy man mam.”
“That explains a lot, except…” Bunny eyed Mex talking gibberish to Izzie. “You're the great man spy who rid Planet Hy Man of all men-kicked them out.”
“More kicked to the gym Mam.”
“You made it all possible.”
“Why the back entrance?”
“Voted in are easily pleased mam, their idea of opulence is anything others can’t afford.”
So, Mex and the like choose what to make unaffordable and…”
“Who’s a cute boy?" Mex cooed at Issy.
“Turns a vote it is a voted in male or female,” I said.
“I see,” tutted Bunny.
“What some would call a knob.” Said Bunny now polishing one.
Mex and I confused looked at each other until Bunny gave a way too in-depth description of the true meaning of a knob where as she put it, polishing was negotiable.
“So, the polishing a knob,” I said, “is a term best keep in the same sentence as a duster.”
“Or Mr. Sheen.” She chuckled.
“On our planet,” muttered Mex “polishing is strictly for the robots.”