Since I have been doing my book signings I have met so many interesting and inspiring people who all have amazing stories to tell. I have also met a lot of writers who are in the process of writing a book. Simon was one of these people and he was kind enough to send me this short story; Malcolm.
During a writing class recently he was asked to write a piece about someone boring; I found it hilarious and thought I would share it with you. I hope it entertains you as much as it did me!
Malcolm
He awoke in the position that he always did, lying on his back facing upwards. His eyes were greeted with their usual first image of the day – the mock brass light fitting with its peach coloured silk effect shade. Five small cracks in the plaster around the ceiling rose giving the impression of a multiple amputee spider. These were just cosmetic flaws a bit like aging lines around someone’s eyes rather than a serious structural defect, not that Malcolm had ever considered or given that any concern.
His arms were outside the duvet and by his side, he had made the decision when he went to bed at 9:45pm the night before, that due to the ongoing heat wave with temperatures in excess of 32 c most days for over a month, to fold his summer bedding back a full 75cm and to sleep with the upper button of his pyjama top undone.
He calculated that with his arms on the outside of the quilt he would gain a .002sec advantage in turning off his Phillips digital alarm clock before it chimed. As it was about to go off at 6:45am he reached his right arm across to the bedside table and pressed the off button before it could utter a sound, giving Malcolm a deep sense of satisfaction that his calculations were precisely correct. If the Phillips 2000 series radio/ alarm had senses it would probably be those of profound frustration that since being purchased by Malcolm Dibly from the local Comet store in 1998 and used by him every day since, with the exception of Christmas mornings when he stayed at his Mother’s flat in Epping,
It had never been able to give its rendition of the Big Ben chimes, its USP, Police siren or any other of the twelve alarm tunes in its repertoire. Its daily chance stymied by its owner’s timely abilities.
He folded back the corner of his bedding and gently swung his legs off the mattress and onto the floor. Sitting on the side of his bed for a full three minutes looking straight ahead, silent and motionless Malcolm prepared himself for his day, his Wednesday.
By eight minutes past seven Malcolm had washed his hands, face and corners, shaved, had his breakfast of 25gm of fair-trade muesli with honey and a banana and brushed his teeth. leaving him a full ten minutes to evacuate his bowels, rinse his hands, brush his hair, put on his summer blazer and leave his first floor flat for the two minute walk to the bus stop to catch the 7:25am loop service that would take him to outside the gates of Gosling & Hardacre engineering where he had worked in the accounts department for twenty three years.
The bus journey could vary between fifteen and twenty five minutes depending on traffic conditions which meant Malcolm always had ample time to clock on for his 8:00am start. He liked it when the bus journey was quick it allowed him time to get into his department without being taunted by all the shop floor workers who had walked to the factory along the High Road. Many a time he had to run the gauntlet past small groups of them who would call out and when they got the chance surround and intimidate him, taunting and calling him names. “Weirdo, poofta, wanker, boring twat”.
Due to the road works near the town hall Malcolm knew it would be nearly five to eight when the bus would arrive opposite the factory gates, he prepared himself to meet his provocateurs. As he stepped of the number 47 he saw the gang of persecutors opposite him several of whom had already spotted and recognised their quarry. “ooi!! Malcolm you muppet hurry up you don’t wanna be late do ya” shouted a pimply faced youth. Malcolm crossed the road and found himself immediately surrounded by the jeering mob, it’s spotty spokesman circling him like a deranged matador verbally jousting with its prey.
“Bet you never had a shag ‘ave yer?, got yer leg over, been laid Malcolm eh, eh?” inquired his acne ridden aggressor. Malcolm looked on impassively as the baying crowd howled like a pack of hyenas until they were struck with disbelief at what happened next.
Malcolm reached into the breast pocket of his blazer and pulled out his Parker fountain pen, unscrewed the lid, changed his grip to that of a stabbing position and plunged it into deep into the ringleader of his tormentors right eye, the pupil exploding in a mass of blood and ink, a purple torrent flowed down his cheek as he screamed in agony. “Boring-the act or process of making or enlarging a hole” recited Malcolm as he looked at his one eyed victim “ yes I suppose I am “ he added as he walked through the shocked crowd towards the factory entrance.
It was two minutes to eight and already 26c Malcolm noted looking at the thermometer on the wall next to the clocking on machine, perhaps he would undo two buttons on his pyjama top tonight he thought.
