– The thing that’s bothering me, and the reason I didn’t sleep last night, said Candice, is it’s occurred to me we don’t really know if there’s a market. I thought there was a market but then there was something Michael the Milkman said when he delivered the milk this morning and I was telling him what I was thinking and he fell asleep while I was talking and when he woke up he apologised but said it all sounded really boring and that he for one wouldn’t be interested in it and he thought not many other people would be either.
– He’s a fucking milkman! What does he know about things?
– Technically he’s a milkman, but he’s actually a very hands-on businessman. He told me he raises the cows, runs the dairy company, owns the milk distribution network, and delivers the milk to the doorstep. He’s quite something.
– He must get pretty tired.
– I suppose, though I’m not sure he actually does all of it himself. Or if I believe him. But he sure seems to know the commercial world and the world of dreaming up a business and possibly becoming stinking rich. You’d be surprised how much milkmen and other ordinary working folk know about that kind of stuff. If he thinks it’s a non-starter we may have to think again.
– That’s frustrating. Plus, thinking even once is bad enough. To have to do it again is really annoying.
– I agree.
5 minutes later the same day:
– It’s good to be back, said Betty, plonking herself on the settee and pulling on a roll-up .
– Sooner than expected, Candice replied, somewhat tersely. You didn’t stay in the mountains for long.
– Turns out we both suffer from verdigris, said Betty. Soon as we got half way up the first one we couldn’t wait to get the hell back down.
– I can’t tell you how sorry I am. We are. Really¸ really, sorry.
– Aah, what the hell. Little Jimmy’ll just have to go back to his cello lessons and the paper he’s working on: The Emergence Of Heroic Stasis In Broadcast Entertainment, or something like that. I don’t remember the exact title. And I’ll have to go sweet talk the Dean into letting me have my job back. I’m not crazy about trying to teach 20th century world literature to a bunch of hormone-addled layabouts but I suppose it’s a paycheque.
– Well, Little Jimmy seems happy enough, out there in the rain, having a scrub down.
– It’s always raining when we have a talk, isn’t it? said Betty, stubbing out the roll-up and setting about the manufacture of another.
The next day:
– I was talking to Conan the librarian, said Benjamin, and he said they have a vacancy at the library and he thought it would suit me down to the ground.
– You work in a library? said Candice. A big pig just flew by the window.
– You underestimate me.
– That’s not possible. You can barely read, as I believe I mentioned in Episode 2.
– The post don’t involve reading.
– A job in a library that doesn’t involve reading? What is it? Janitor?
– Janitorship is an honourable occupation.
– Indeed it is. I believe William Shakespeare was a janitor before he became the Swan of Avon.
– At least I’ll be earning some dosh. And I can push a bit of dope on the side. Conan says half the staff at the library are into weed and stuff. And embroidery.
– I hate that fucking school! screamed Betty as she burst through the door without bothering to open it. The students are morons, the administrative staff are morons, the Dean’s Head Fucking Moron, and I swear to fuck I’m not going back another day, they can take their job and stick it up their faculty bum hole. Where’s the Scotch?
– Bad day? asked Candice.
Little Jimmy entered the room, following in his mother’s footsteps, and spoke:
– Benjamin, a little bird by the name of Conan, into whom I often run while using the public toilets in the market square, tells me you are in a position to steal books from the library and nobody is going to suspect you because you’re a semi-literate twat. Is that right? Don’t ask me how we got on to the subject; it would spoil the narrative flow. Anyway, I need some otherwise difficult to find volumes for my research and they won’t let me have a library card owing to the fact that I don’t seem to legally exist – a matter concerning which my mother and I really need to discuss when we have time. So, how about it?
– I don’t work there yet. Conan’s being precipitate, as usual. I have to go for an interview, provide a completed application form along with an up-to-date CV and two letters of reference, proof that I have no criminal record, which could be tricky, and also, I gather, demonstrate to the satisfaction of the interviewing panel that I know one end of a toilet brush from the other.
– That could be another tricky part, put in Candice, chuckling. And where did you get ‘precipitate’ from, for Heaven’s sake?
– Did I get it right? said Benjamin, rather chuffed with himself.
– Hey Candice, I’ve been meaning to ask, how are you managing to feed yourself these days? interjected Betty. As far as one can tell you have no discernible source of income.
– Men like me, said Candice. And some of them are willing to pay for the privilege of keeping me company for the occasional hour.
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Conrad Titmuss
Picture r/Psychosis
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