A Little Fiction – Frankie & Benny

“…So, you know what it’s like, you’re well into discussing the state of your underwear when you realise that the person you are talking to is not the person you thought you were talking to, but you can’t stop now, can you, without drawing attention to it?  Without, as it were, looking an even bigger pranny than you already do.”
“Perhaps it would be wiser to keep the on-going condition of your undercrackers out of the conversation until you had a little more time in which to ensure clarity, viz a viz the ‘who am I talking to’ conundrum, in future.”
“What?”
“You do tend to introduce your grundies into the chat rather more early than is altogether seemly, if you want my opinion Benny.”
“I don’t!”
“Fine, that’s fine then…  So, who were you chatting to in the end, anyway?”
“Turns out she was from the council.  She’d come to discuss the complaint I’d put in about the smell.”
“And you thought it was the ideal time to introduce your trolleys into the conflab?”
“I thought it was a long-lost aunty or somesuch.  I’d even offered her a Yo-Yo.”
“Mint or toffee?”
“Mint.”
“Classy.”
“Well, I thought she might have turned up out of the blue to tell me that I’d inherited some money or something.  You can’t go offering Rich Tea in those circumstances, can you?  That’s a Penguin conversation at least.”
“I have Viscount myself.  Superior quality of tin-foil on a Viscount I find: stay fresh for week’s they do.”
“Yes, well, we’re not all superannuated you know.”
“Right, well, I can see why you got the Yo-Yo’s out Benny, need to make the right impression in such a circumstance, but what drew your shitty pants into the discourse?”
“She mentioned the smell.”
“From the yard?”
“Of course, that’s why I’d rung the council in the first place – not, of course, that I realised that she was from the council at that stage – but I thought that, if she was indeed a solicitor or somesuch, planning to make me the sort of offer that could see me as the proud owner of an automatic washing machine or an induction hob et cetera, then I needed to make her au fait with the fact that, whilst the money to make my laundry days a little less time consuming than my current trip to the laundrette in Morrison’s carpark would be most welcome, those same arrangements were not the cause of the unpleasant odour at that time permeating my whole flat and, to that effect, I thought it legitimate to mention that my pants were clean on last Thursday.”
“That being?”
“Monday.  So a good few days left in them at that point.”
“And how did she react?”
“Well, that’s when I began to suspect that all might not be as it seemed, Frankie, that things were, indeed, somewhat at odds with my expectations.”
“Go on.”
“‘The Council is not in the habit of handing out loans to those who are – for whatever reason – unable to stop themselves from being the source of unpleasant odours,’ she said.  ‘We do not, in short, expect to be called out to the properties of unsavoury old men in order to experience for ourselves the smell that they give off due to not being able to keep themselves clean.  I bid you good day,’ she said, and made to leave.  ‘Now just you wait on,’ I said, but she was ready for me.  ‘If you think,’ she said, ‘that you can threaten me, Mr Anderson, you’d better think again,’ and she scooped up her Yo-Yo and left without a by-your-leave.”
“Oh dear.  So what will you do now?”
“Well, we need to get out there and find out where the smell is actually coming from.”
“We?”
“I’m an old man, Frankie, you wouldn’t have me out there on my own would you?  ‘Now, what’s causing that smell?  Oh my God, look at that!  It’s a…’  Exit Benny, gripping chest in agony.  Alone and friendless in a smelly backyard.”
“Alright, point made.  You are certain of your underwear situation, aren’t you?”
“Would you like to take alook for yourself?”
“No, no, definitely no.  Ok, I’ll accompany you onto the patio.  I’m not touching anything, mind.”
“Right, let’s go to it then: strike while the iron’s hot.  I want to find out what’s causing the stink and rub that old luxury biscuit thief’s nose in it.”
“Ok.  How do we get in there?”
“Where?”
“The backyard.  How do we get in there?  The door’s always locked, but I’ve never seen a key for it.  Who’s got the key?”
“Ah, I’d never thought of that.  I bet it’s that bloody TFW on the ground floor.  I’m not knocking on his door to ask for it.”
“I’m not sure he’s even in.  There’s an old lavvy outside his front door and about three week’s milk.”
“He took the lavvy out himself – with his head.  It was annoying him, apparently, but the milk… You don’t suppose he’s dead do you?  It would explain the smell.”
“I’m not sure that he could smell any worse dead than he did alive, my old chum.  He had what I believe the BBC would term an ‘uneasy relationship’ with soap.  Ten years I’ve been coming to your flat Benny, and other than the day of the gravy incident, I’ve never seen him change his clothes.  I hear that David Attenborough is preparing to do a whole series on the life contained within his jogging bottoms…  You want to get rid of the smell, you need to get out of this flat my friend.”
“But what if he’s dead?”
“Does he have any cats?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Nobody to eat him then.  He could lay there decomposing for months.  They say that you can never remove the smell of a dead body.”
“Particularly one that is welded to his clothes.  I’ll phone the council again.  I’ll say I can’t manage the stairs…  Have you still got that spare room, Frankie?  Just as a stopgap I mean.  Just short term.  Until they sort me out with a new flat.  There are some empty near you aren’t there?”
“There are, yes.  They are constantly becoming vacant, in fact there is a permanent hearse on standby at the end of the block.  We used to run a sweepstake on who would be next, but there’s not enough of us left now.  There’s more chipboard around me now than a kebab shop.  Come on, let’s not bother phoning, we’ll just wander round and see them.  Get your stick.  Put a marble in your shoe, that’ll help.”
“Ok, I will…  Shall we just have a cup of tea before we go?”
“Ay, why not.  Don’t suppose you’ve got any of those Yo-Yos left, have you?””
“No.”

I decided to revisit some old ‘Little Fiction’ friends and whilst I was doing so, I met these new ones…  N.B. my thanks to Billy Connolly for ‘TFW’ – Tattooed Fuck-Wit.

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