 "Hoodehellrya?!" Bellows Godzilla, knocking me back over the lace-attired porcelain kangaroo with "Souvenir from Alice Springs" across its pink frilly dress.
"WerdehellizFilomina!." Demands the extremely gifted word juggler.
"What's a Filominah?, I was about to gasp as I mistily recall a photograph shoved in my face the night before. What I drunkenly made out, through glazed eyes, to be a picture of a prize Hereford bull, was somebody's recently dumped boyfriend. That precise image of which was standing, as a full sized six foot three inches 3D replica, breathing solid steamy foul gasses from both nostrils in my general direction. The recollection of last night's party at Terry Light finger's one bedroom flat, spread out in my consciousness like the last moments of one's life.
"So" I thought "Fresh piece of skirt, attached by two fingers and an arm to the photo, looks like safe, easy prey for some nifty romancing!"
Thankfully, the babe was blessed with the naivety of a frozen chicken and as I'm not one to baulk at a free kiss and cuddle session, out comes the soffistikateon that no girl can resist: NO WAY MAN!
The miscalculation, to put it ridiculously mildly, looked down my throat through wild, red-rimmed eyes, two inches away from my forehead, preparing to inflict cosmetic surgery on my face and a cheap panel beating job to the body I've dearly loved for the past forty or so years.
Now, as it happens, I have this weird, irrational fear of dying in a flower strewn, baby blue, Marks and Spencer regular sized towel, so…
In a blur of movement, the towel was swiped off the hips and thrown blindly over the wart being used as a head by the Terminator, while kicking the door shut. The time was opportune to retire discreetly. Diving into an assortment of loose clothing littering the floor, vaguely conscious of the floor shaking as the Hulk leisurely took apart the two-inch, solid teak door. Urged on by fear of death by dismemberment, wiggled into someone's lace G-string panties, buried myself in a shirt that could have fitted me and the Italian national soccer team and nearly got emasculated squeezing into a pair of stretch bootleg jeans, tailored for an undernourished ostrich.
As the door finally gave way, I was already halfway through the doggy door with my heart in my mouth and my sanity on the edge of hysteria. Running fast and low past the bedroom window, a plaintive voice was heard saying "Don't hurt him Bert, I luv him!"
Bert howled long and loud, kicked a hole in the wall, pulled the solid brass curtain rod out of the wall. As I ducked into an alley at warp speed, managed to glimpse the murderous expression on the face that would not be spreading good news on my behalf if he ever got wind of my whereabouts.
E-mail to Ray Agius: Ramel@bigpond.com
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