Tuesday, December 11, 2012

A Mystery

At first I thought I was just getting a bit forgetful, nowt to do with age...obviously. But it kept happening and I tried to work it out, eliminate possibilities.
Now, fair enough, I'm a ponsey, artsy-fartsy, wishy-washy, head-up mi'arse, luvvie, almost writer but I don't believe in bollocks or new-age nonsense, I'm more of a logic, science type of fella. I'm not going to fall for some daft elf and shoemaker or Pisney Dixar set up, I'll test the fucker, work it out, nail the scamp in the act.
As I quickly - second time it happened - realised that it wasn't me being senile, it had to be Mrs Mick, no other possible option....well, strictly speaking, the Pisney Dixar scenario was possible but I'm more likely to develop the ability to fly and fuck off to Barbados everyday for a bit of morning sun.
The most logical thing I’m left with is that I’m completely and utterly off mi trough, a couple of synapses short of a working brain. But I’m not, can’t be, there has to be some logic hanging around here somewhere. The last one like this was when I kept writing notes, phone numbers, dates on the calendar and yet I wasn’t. I would’ve missed the talk at Wortley Historical Society if they hadn’t phoned me the day before….and they were paying me, insisted on it no matter how much I protested. So as I’m taking the kitchen apart, looking for the telephone number I’d written down the previous day, mi youngest saunters in, ‘Ah, there it is mi’Spy Pen, bin looking fo’that.’ TWAT, invisible ink and he’d helpfully chewed off the labels so it just looked like a black pen, which I’d obviously grabbed in a flap.
Right, what do I know for sure? Just the one thing, ten pound notes keep turning up in the inside right pocket of mi leather jacket. No two things, I’m not doing it. Mrs Mick int doing it, the kids don’t have access to that kind of money, the house is locked and there’s no correlation with visitors.  So I don’t know one thing, I know shitloads and the one thing that’s really getting me is that something thoroughly illogical is happening in our kitchen. It’s worse than God, a belief in fate – they are at least possible – or shutting mi’eyes at Elland Road as a nipper when Leeds were just about to score…..to make sure they did…. it’s as bad as that.
It’s not huge amounts, we’re not going to retire and move to Hydra or owt, odd tenner here, thirty quid there, the most I’ve had in a seven day period is £140. But when you’re a bit skint, that’s a decent chunk of extra cash. Financially, we’d be alright if them selfish, bastard kids would stop wearing their shoes outside and eating food….they also wear their coats in wind and rain which I’m sure damages them, the coats that is.
With everything else it’s just enough to get by on; I can continue pretending to be a writer whilst sponging off Mrs Mick’s hard work and decent wage. I’d explained the constant small chunks of cash by telling her that I’d found and book shop in Garforth and a gift shop in the Corn Exchange who both insisted on paying in cash, she dint question it.
I realised I’d turned into Gollum when we went to set up a book launch, I hung up mi jacket on the coat stand…..bad move. I’d carried a few boxes up the spiral stairs, arranged some leaflets, hung some posters, got bombarded by people asking me questions, went to get a fag out of my jacket…..IT WAS GONE…. ‘THIEVING CUNTS…. WHERE’S MI JACKET? I’D HUNG IT UP THERE.’
‘What’s it look like?’
Well, ten people searched the room, it got a bit frantic, no-where to be seen, I was close to tears when John pointed at me and said, ‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’ 
 ‘That fucking jacket you’re wearing, that dark brown, soft leather fucking jacket that you’re wearing.’
I kissed him. He gave me a big hug and whispered, ‘Love you, y’dosey cunt.’ We laughed.

So I’m still left with the only option that I’m a mentalist, which is fine but due to some weird insecurity I need to get to the bottom of it and prove mi’heads innocence. Early on I watched the access to the kitchen, not directly but locked doors and stayed up in a place where anyone would need to pass me to get to the kitchen, nothing but two tenners in mi’pocket four hours later. There isn’t a certain time it happens; it was through the day a couple of times with no-one else in the house. Two other things, it seems to make no difference whether I remove the money when I find it or leave it there, just piles up and it’s always ten pound notes, sometimes tatty, sometimes crisp.
I would stake it out properly and watch it but I don’t want to hex it, the money’s useful and I don’t want to fuck with this process. I hated that, but had to admit I’m almost agreeing to a belief in magic, fate or faith or sommat bollocksy…..but at least I’m getting paid for it.
Of course this is all bollocks, it's a daft story, but if we ever meet, keep away from my fucking jacket….I’ll be watching you.

Mick – now y’know why I never flog any books – McCann

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