Joe had some boxes full of air he wasn’t using and had them tucked away in the cupboard in his bedroom. His pal Jim phoned to say he was planning to do some things that would involve a lot of breathing and he needed some extra air and if he wasn’t using those boxes of air he knew Joe had stashed away could he borrow them for maybe a week or so.
Sure, said Joe, because Joe’s a decent chap and the boxes of air were away in the cupboard and the air was not being used and may indeed have been going a trifle stale. A couple of days later Jim phoned to say he was going to be starting to do the things he had mentioned tomorrow and so needed the boxes of air today so he would have them on hand and he said, Joe, why don’t you come over and have a beer, and while you’re at it bring the boxes of air. Thanks.
Joe paused, and considered his options. Then he said, You’ve got to be kidding. I’m here on my own, the wife’s away at her Mum’s, the dog seems to be a bit off-colour, it might be something he ate, I’m not sure, the vet said to keep an eye on him for a day or two and if he don’t get better then take him in for them to look at, but I sure can’t really afford vet’s fees at the moment, and my therapist phoned to say they can’t take listening to people whinging any more and they’re going to go and live in a monastery on an Italian hillside and I’ll have to find someone else to waste an hour a week with, and I have laundry to do because I’m wearing stale underwear. You want the boxes of air? Come and get the fucking boxes of air.
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Conrad Titmuss
Picture Rupert Mallin
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