Chapter 83 – On Friendship
It occurred to Tarquin that he was a bit short of friends. Never mind friends, he was a bit short of acquaintances. He was even a bit short of people who, when they passed him in the street, would nod in his direction, although the nod would be accompanied with the hint of a scowl. What to do? He was always hearing on the wireless or reading in the community newsletter that social interaction and mixing with people was good for one’s mental health and general wellbeing, but he had always thought this was a load of tosh, because as far he was able to tell people were by and large about as good for one’s mental health and general wellbeing as an outbreak of suspicion sores on the scrotum. Was he at odds with the zeitgeist and state of the art medical and psychological thinking? Heaven forfend that should be the case! It was enough to keep a chap awake at night, as if he did not have enough of those sorts of things, thank you very much.
When this thought struck him (to be clear, I mean the one about his lack of friends) he was reclining on the couch in his pleasantly appointed pied-a-terre above The Neptune Fish Bar on Minerva Way. Three wispy and diaphanous maidens composed of light and wafting cloud and incense were feeding him red grapes and plying him with Pinot Grigio, while another young lass conjured heavenly melody from the enchanted strings of an invisible lyre.
Of a sudden, the cloudy maidens and the lyre bird vanished as the air was rent by the bone- shattering and head-breaking sound of the fire alarm. Yes, the frying fat in the fish bar had once again exceeded the legally acceptable levels of whatever the scientific word is, and triggered the as usual heart-stopping alert. This happened two or three times a week, but Tarquin did not fret because although to his dismay but not surprise the maidens had left and his developing nether tumescence had almost immediately begun to wither back to from whence it had come, he knew that after a couple of minutes Jason down below would turn off the alarm, and Tarquin would open the windows to clear the air, and life would return to its normal lifelessness.
When all of that was done and dusted, Tarquin considered the question of friends, absent and non-existent. That took no time at all, but he remembered that he had Geoff. Geoff was a good mate. Tarquin could always rely on Geoff to be available so he did not have to go to the pub on his own and sit there advertising his hopelessness all on his own. True, Geoff had the personality and conversational skills of an aphid, but he also had a good job and a decent supply of disposable income, which he was careless of spending. A heart of gold, had Geoff, plus deep pockets and the intelligence of the aforementioned aphid.
Tarquin realized that with Geoff around he had no need to be alone, he had no need to stay in of an evening imagining being in the arms of imaginary females who spanned a surprising and somewhat inexplicable age range, he had no need to drink alone, and he had no need to be contemplating the possibility of passing out on the couch from alcohol poisoning and terminal ennui and choking on his own sadness and laying in his own stains undiscovered for a month of more until his landlord became fed up with waiting for the rent and came round to bang on the door and let himself in and Christ, the landlord says to himself, this is going to take some fucking sorting out.
So Tarquin called Geoff on the phone, and Geoff’s mum answered, and said through her tears, Didn’t you know he was run over by a bus outside The King’s Head last week? The funeral’s on Wednesday.
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Conrad Titmuss
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