Damien had trouble keeping up with Donald as he bounded down the stairs. He caught up with the old boy tugging at the door handles at his car. ‘Whoa…!’ Damien cried. ‘Let’s get a few things straight before we go’
Donald was nodding furiously and still tugging at the door handle. ‘Leave that alone and listen’ said Damien, starting to sound just a tad tetchy. Donald turned his head slightly and tilted his head back appearing to strain to catch Damien’s every word.
‘Right, firstly, have you got your mobile, and is it fully charged?’ Donald fumbled in his battered jacket and triumphantly pulled out a mobile phone that looked to be only slightly younger than himself. Damien really didn’t need to ask if it was charged, the battery in that thing probably had the same half-life as plutonium.
Donald had firmly resisted any offers to upgrade it claiming ‘It works, it makes calls and texts and I don’t need no touch screen interwebby stuff. And if I need to take pictures, I will use me Box Brownie, cameras taking photos, pah..!!!’
‘OK, OK,’ said Damien, ‘I will text you when I am going to pick you up. That will be when I have dropped my girlfriend off and I will be heading home sharpish because I am going out tonight. Make sure you can pick up the message’
Again, this was something else Damien needn’t worry about. The message alert on Donald’s phone was so loud and had a particular tone that if he was out and about fishing and it went off, anglers in adjoining postcodes would make a dash for their rods thinking their bite alarms had sprung into life.
Donald was tugging at the car door handle again, but Damien wasn’t finished yet. ‘When I text you have got 20 minutes to get back to the car park by the lake where I drop you off. If you finish early you can wait in the pub next door and have a pint of that ‘Weasel Widdle’ muck or whatever it’s called
‘Fursty Ferret’ corrected Donald, ‘proper Real Ale that is laddie’
‘Whatever’ replied Damien, he was a confirmed designer lager drinker and had no taste for the muck that Donald waxed lyrical about. ‘That stuff is probably strained through badger droppings to get the right taste and texture, you’d be better off drinking from a muddy puddle’
‘Done that too’ said Donald’ Let me tell you when I was out on long-range patrol in the Hindu Cush we drunk whatever we could, and when we couldn’t find any muddy puddles we had to drink our own pi…..’
‘ENOUGH…!!’ shouted Damien, he knew where these stories went and he really hadn’t got time to humour the old git today ‘Get in the car’
The pair of them hurtled off to the lake, but on the way Damien felt a strange twinge come over him. ‘Are you going to be warm enough, I’m sure the weatherman said it would freeze later’ the pair of them looked through the windscreen, it was still overcast and unseasonably warm
‘Don’t worry about me laddie, I’ve got me thermals on under all this gear’ said Donald as he made to undo some layers of clothing to prove his point.
‘No, don’t bother’ replied Damien. He had seen those thermals out on the washing line and it was not something he wanted to repeat. They weren’t actually thermals, but were a pair of ancient long johns, not quite fifty shades of grey, but pretty close. And hanging from the washing line, billowing in the wind with the charmingly named ‘crap-flap’ unbuttoned, they reminded Damien of a basking shark with its mouth wide open.
‘Anyway’ continued Donald, ‘When we was up on the NorthWest Fronti….’ Another yarn was cut short as Damien skidded to a halt in the car park by the lake.
‘You’re lucky’ said Damien
‘Why’s that laddie’ replied a quizzical Donald.
Damien grinned ‘At least I stopped the car to let you out..!’
Donald clambered out, and shot Damien a displeased took then got his gear out of the boot. He was just about to walk off when Damien shouted out the window ‘Don’t forget what I said’ and with that he was off, with a squeal from his tyres and showering gravel across the car park.
Damien picked up his girlfriend and the day just went downhill from there. He was too young to understand the intricacies and unwritten rules pertaining to the purchase of an engagement ring. He started badly with his opening offering that his girlfriend should get ‘Whatever she wanted’. That bought a withering stare and a stiff rebuke along the lines that they were there to choose a ring together, and it was to be a ring that they both liked.
Damien fell at the second hurdle when it came to came to the price. He wasn’t aware that an engagement ring was to cost at least a month’s salary (before tax, of course). Having seen the price of the rings his girlfriend was looking at, the comment the he didn’t realise that it had to be the cost of a Premiership footballer’s monthly wages received his second withering stare of the day.
The last complication that was thrown at him was of course the question of the matching wedding band and eternity ring. The problem was that apparently you have to imagine what the other two rings will look like when worn with the engagement ring. You also have to carefully field questions like ‘Are my fingers too short or stubby for three rings?’ Damien got his third withering look of the afternoon when he suggested they might as well get all three rings today, to save them coming out again and they might get a discount for bulk buying.
After having had the ‘third finger left hand’ held up to his face for inspection for what felt like the one hundredth time, finally a ring was chosen. The fact is was actually the second one his girlfriend had tried on some three hours ago and was considerably more than one month’s salary was immaterial. The deed was time. Time to drop his girlfriend off, whip round and pick up the old git and get off to his firm’s do and get absolutely bladdered.
Driving at close to warp speed he arrived at his girlfriend’s house, declined the offer of a coffee, gave her a peck on the cheek and jumped in his car. Out with his mobile he dashed off a text to Donald, telling him that he had better be ready as he was over an hour later than he said he would be, and to his surprise, he got a text straight back. Pedal to the metal he howled off down the street.
Donald’s day hadn’t lived up to expectations either. His magic sprats were fluttered, jigged, retrieved slowly, fished sink and draw, spun ferociously, but nothing worked. He was slightly bemused at the lack of attraction, but still managed to enjoy his few hours out fishing. He thought to himself there will always be another day, but then, on reflection, he also realised that in truth, there probably wouldn’t be that many more days like this left for him.
The lake he was fishing was quite small, and roughly triangular in shape. Donald had methodically covered the first two sides, but as he rounded the last corner he felt the wind in his face. Looking up the sky had cleared, and the temperature had dropped quite suddenly. Donald pulled his coat a little tighter as he made his way down the last bank.
Just by the entrance to the car park, there was a wooden bench, and Donald sat down for a rest. The bench was a memorial to someone who enjoyed the view, and Donald sat there taking it in. Just over the hedge to his left and across the car park he could see the roof of the pub, he rubbed his hands together to get his circulation going and took out his pipe.
‘I’ll have meself a quick bowl of Dark Shag before I nip in there’ he said to no one. He had just fired up his pipe when the silence was shattered by his mobile going off. He pulled the phone out of his battered jacket, peered at the message and sent a reply. ‘Might be time for a quick one then’ he said to himself, his weather beaten face breaking out in a smile as he looked across at the pub.
Damien woke up with a banging headache. Then he slowly opened his eyes and realised that there was a banging noise but it wasn’t in his head. He tried to drift off again but first there was shouting, then someone running up the stairs and flinging his bedroom door open and turning on the light.
Damien tried to sit up, blinking at the light and trying, through the alcoholic haze from last night, to make out what his mother was screaming at him.
What happened…!!!’ she said
‘Hmm..’ thought Damien, difficult question, particularly as at this point he had no memory of anything. Best to play for time, he thought, so he replied ‘What, what…?’
‘How could you…?? Was the next question fired at him.
Still not making much sense, he thought. ‘How could I WHAT?’ he shot back as the banging in his head now started to get very real.
‘How could you leave your Uncle like THAT on a night like last night’ His mother was looking really upset, she was crying and now his dad appeared in the doorway.
‘Like what’ said Damien, still very confused.
His dad took over the interrogation. ‘That was the police, your Uncle was found on a bench early this morning, not moving. He had his pipe in one hand, mobile in the other. We came home late last night and thought he was tucked up in his bed. Thought you were supposed to picking up yesterday afternoon, and there was a hard frost last night. Police called to say he has been taken to the hospital, but if he’s been out on that bench all night……’
Damien’s mother turned away, sobbing.
Damien was trying hard to remember, he had spent all of last night trying to blot out what had happened yesterday, but fragments were coming back
‘Text’ he said
What’ replied his dad.
He sent me a text’ said Damien. Stumbling out of bed and fumbling through the clothes scattered randomly over the floor, he found his mobile. He flicked through the screens, while he stood swaying as the room started to rotate around him.
Holding the screen up to his dad’s face he said ‘See’
His dad peered at the screen. There were two texts on the screen, the first from Damien saying
‘Are you ready for a lift home’
Below was the reply form Donald
‘NO’
Damien pulled the phone back to his chest and said, quite defensively ‘See, he didn’t want a lift and I wasn’t going out of my way to pick him up’
His dad told him to get dressed as the police wanted them to go to the hospital.
When they finally managed to get Damien ready and out of the house they rushed to the hospital and were stopped by the policeman who was standing just inside the reception.
‘Before you go in’ he said quite solemnly ‘I should tell you that your relative was found to be dead….’
THE END
And finally……
I would like to (very) belatedly dedicate this episode to Merv Harrison. He was always supportive of my feeble attempts at humour, and was particularly kind enough to encourage my efforts at cobbling together the D & D episodes. A friend I sadly never met, and a pillar of FM who will be, and is, sadly missed. I would like to hope that wherever his is now he is reading this and smiling
And really finally……
This is the last D & D episode, but if you look to the skies (or at least the Forum) on Xmas Eve, close your eyes and wish very hard, you never ever know…….
