Wednesday arrived at five minute past nine in the shape of Taliesin and Gary. What had possessed his parents to team the name Taliesin up with the surname Pickles, Alan had never quite worked out. In fact possession was something he had considered as a real possibility having met the boy’s father. Taliesin was currently watching intently as Helen made his and Gary’s tea. Gary looked rather bored and was fiddling with his phone, whilst his friend looked Helen directly in the breasts.
“Stop looking at my tits or I’ll set Alan on you, you little pervert. That’s two pounds please.” Taliesin looked nervously over to where Alan was making short work of his Chocolate muffin. “And anyway, why aren’t you in school?”
“We got a free period.” Taliesin mumbled through his black floppy fringe. It seemed as though his voice had been breaking for four years, it could still go either way. He handed over what looked like the result of a brutal murder of a piggy bank and moped over to where Gary was feverishly texting.
The Misses Smith were next. Both absolutely ancient, both all knowing and all interfering, Morgana and Guinevere Smith (another time Alan wondered what the hell the parents had been thinking), sat demurely drinking tea from the china cups Alan kept behind the counter especially for them. They both wore the kind of Heather Mixture Ladies Suits and Brown Sensible Shoes that nowhere sold any more. Presumably because the manufacturers had realised too late they had created an indestructible product and promptly went out of business. Both of them were demurely interested in Alan’s not so private life and wondered why there was not a Mrs Silver and perhaps a small pack of Little Silver’s running around the place. They came in every day. And every day they seemed to take great personal affront to Alan’s lack of marital progress.
“So Mr Silver, did you perhaps meet a young lady whilst you were away on Business?” They were far to genteel to refer to Alan’s lycanthropy, even if it was permanently open season on his relationships.
“I’m afraid not, Miss Smith.” Alan didn’t really know which one was which, they were fairly interchangeable.
“Don’t be so indelicate dear.” The other old bat squeaked. “It might be a young gentleman Mr Silver has his cap set at.” That was a new angle! Somewhere over the back Helen inhaled her drink. Alan sent her a look that could’ve killed, if you went in for the whole pulse/ heartbeat thing.
“Oh how modern!” the other Miss Smith Chirped, and then delved into a handbag the size of shipping container to retrieve a tiny scrap of lace and wipe her nose.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you but no.” Alan found it best to be firm with the Misses Smith, although he sometimes wondered if that wasn’t what they were aiming for in the first place. “It was an uneventful full moon for me I’m afraid.”
“Oh Dear.” Both Smiths chorused. And then they pulled out the knitting. In the arsenal of the old Lady, the Knitting is equivalent to the grenade launcher. At first glance the knitting seemed harmless, slightly pink and a bit fluffy, and looking as though it had aspirations to one day become a shawl for the thin, translucent shoulders of its creator. But the rhythmic movement of the pins had malice in every click, like some terrible insect that ate its husband. Alan swallowed nervously and moved away, lest he get crocheted into a multi coloured, werewolf shaped tea cosy.
“Perhaps.” Said Helen, wiping the counter suggestively and causing a fifteen year old boy to choke on his milkshake. “You should advertise.”
“Advertise? Advertise what?”
“Yourself.”
“Helen, I hardly think anyone will pay to sleep with me, considering no one will when I’m offering it free.”
“No. I meant a lonely hearts ad. But thanks for that image of you as a rent boy. I may have day mares about that for weeks.”
“I’m not that desperate.”
“Alan, yes you are. Now get a pen and some paper and draft out what you want to say.”
“Absolutely not. Go and clean the tables or rearrange the muffins or something.”
An hour later he was sat at a table surrounded by several screwed up balls of paper and a sheet of a4 that had the words “Male, 53.” Written on it in his elegant scrawl.
“It’s no good. I’m just not doing this. It’s not dignified at my age. I’m going out for some fresh air.” He grabbed his Leather jacket from where it hung on the coat stand and strode out of the front door. Oblivious to the three women, two men and a Cyclops and the eleven eyes that stared lustfully after him. Helen shook her head.
“Okay Miss Smith and Miss Smith? It looks like we need to take matters into our own hands.”
The Knitting was put down and two pairs of bright black eyes glittered like beetles, behind their pince nez.
“Oh how exciting dear.” And Morgana Smith pulled out an elegant quill and a bottle of blood red ink.
