Sleuth Shirley

“They looked like they were getting on really well, she kept giggling and he kept touching her hoof. I reckon it was a date, although I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. He must be new to this area because I would’ve recognised him. He wasn’t all that bad looking too, had that “I know I’m good looking but I don’t want to show it” air about him. Held a very calm and confident manner for the entire date and paid for the drinks. I think she must have appreciated that. She seemed sort of relaxed and well, happy. Some might describe her as being “glowing” but I’m not too sure. What do you think?”

Shantelle raised her head from her starch filled trough.

“Who are you talking about?”

I growled and declared she was a hungry fool who shouldn’t focus all of her attention on feeding.

“Laura Lamb and her date? I saw them together down at the Rose & Crown. I don’t know who he is. You’re usually good at hunting out the details; I need you to give me everything you can about who this stranger might be.”

It was 4 chews before she offered any help, “There is a new ram called Barry who’s new to the area. It could be him? I wouldn’t describe him as good looking though…”

“Well alright, he was a fair distance away from me at the time-”

“More like bloody GORGEOUS!! HUBBA HUBBA!! Yes please, give me a leg of that!!”

Shantelle gave a few nods and started to get excited (an unappealing process that was immediately halted).

“Right, I need you to get me all the info possible ASAP.”

Shantelle nodded before returning to her 3^rd dinner portion.

“Why do you want to know? Can’t Laura Lamb have a date that’s… private?”

I hushed her for offering such a stupid opinion. Didn’t she realise I needed to know?

“If you can assist me in finding out about this Barry then I’d be most grateful. There’s a Happy Meal in it for you and if you’re extra thorough I’ll even throw in a Twix.”

The next morning Shantelle did what any sometime-bestfriend would; deliver a 40 page document chronicling Barry Bletchly’s history and vital statistics.

I read every word twice (I even placed a pencil behind my ear to get into Woodward & Bernstein mode). I highlighted certain excerpts that I attempted to burn to memory;

• It was reported he won the 1997 National Farmyard Rear of the Year
• Appeared in two editions of OK! magazine (in the fields of Sharon Osbourne’s country house getaway)
• Attained Grade 3 in electric guitar
• Favourite fragrances are Hugo Boss but occasionally switches to Issey Miyake on special occasions.
• Has a birthmark behind his left ear which resembles the letter K backwards.

After dedicating 17 minutes to drill the majority of the document to memory, I flopped back on my bale in exhaustion. Barry Bletchly was an interesting character indeed. How on earth does he know Laura? Shouldn’t she still be snivelling after being viciously dumped by her fiancé Steve?

You could call it nosiness (I prefer inquisitiveness) but I text Laura.

Hey Laura! Long-time no speak! Was it you at the Rose & Crown the other night?

I sat back and awaited her reply. After 6 minutes my phone remained mute and I was thrust upon the path of coercion.

Was it Barry Bletchly you were with? How come? Let me know.

Laura Lamb remained as silent as a dry rot-ridden fence post for a further hour whilst I busied myself with a bout of internet research (I learnt Barry Bletchly had amassed 894 “friends” on Facerook and lists Avatar as his favourite film. Yawn).

Hi Shirl! Yeh I wz @ Roz+crwn! I waved @ U  lol! Do u kno barry?:)

Ah. Should have been more subtle in my interrogation. For 3 minutes I thought it best to leave Laura’s text unanswered (gives the impression I’m mightily busy doing superbly exciting things). At the precise moment I deemed it acceptable to reply I constructed a message;

Take care, S x

Laura didn’t reply to my last text (she was probably trying to appear busy) but at least I’d figured out who her date was. I spent the rest of the day pondering two things,

1. Should I divulge Steve with this information?
2. Why am I so bothered about Laura Lamb’s love life?

S x

Nod & Smile. Smile & Nod.

As soon as I arrived to meet Jay at the Rose & Crown (my usual 43 minutes late) I immediately saw a wheezing elderly ram crouched behind the bar. I rushed to gallantly save the poor old thing (this was my chance to become a bonefide heroine, my mind reeled with the magazine and film possibilities).

“Shoirley!”

Jay interrupted my selfless mission and stepped in to give me a hug (an action physically rebuffed).

“I need to save this ram’s life- he looks in a lot of pain-”

My words obviously acted as the rescue beacon to the poor old ram as his debilitating symptoms instantly ceased.

Jay chuckled and said something (I think he might have mentioned the name George but I might have misheard him saying the word “doors”)

My stares of bewilderment were shared between both gentleram. The one behind the bar did look faintly familiar (but I still wouldn’t have been able to put a name to the face, G something?) and the other just sounded like he was speaking a foreign language backwards.

“I’ll just have a large Pinot Grigio please, recently revived bar steward, I’ll be sitting at that table over there.”

I glided to my specified table and perched on the stool (legs crossed so a teasing but not slutty amount of thigh was on show- a trick I once learnt on Loose Women). Jay continued the conversation and George started cackling again. If it were not for the large glass of pinot being poured in my direct eye line I would have taken offense at such despicable 1st date behaviour;

•          Leave the female to travel to the seating location unaccompanied
•          Failure to pull out bar stool for said female
•          Hold conversation with any creature other than said female

I placed a bet with myself as to whether he’d raise from the table when I next visited the powder room (32/1 odds).

When the shimmering wine diamonds became too tantalising to resist I tapped my hoof on the table and let out a call for table service.

“Excuse me tender of the bar? You have a thirsty customer here?”

Jay winked at the bar server and delivered my sparkling juice with perfect 5-star waiter panache (10 points). I nodded my head in appreciation but then frightfully realised we’d have to converse.

“So…Jay…”

Jay took a swig of his Guinness (I disapproved of his tipple, the black body and white head threw up too many memories of my failed romance with Sheepdog Joe) and focussed all of his attention on me. What if the feeling of incomprehension was shared, maybe he couldn’t understand me? I’d have to address him in such a clear and direct way for him to be able to answer.

“Do You Come Here Often?”

I’d unwittingly plucked the most nauseating thing to say from my first-date question bag, a choice that angered me to such an extent that I screwed my face and ground my molars. What a horrible clichéd question to pose! He must think I’m an unexciting, play-it-safe, “I’ve seen it in the films so it must work”, type of ewe, I needed to say something else to mask that horrendous initial question.

“The reason why I say that is because you seem to be getting on very well with the barman so I just wondered… if you maybe…do you come here often?”

Drat. I said it again. I would just have to wait for his response, if I said anything more I ran the risk of furthering my desperately boring appearance.

“Nah.”

Silence. As I failed to decode his verbal utterance, I relied upon my excellent reading of body language and tone of voice to gauge his reaction. He was unimpressed. I couldn’t blame him of course, I was well aware of how dire I must have appeared.

I sipped my wine and remained silent whilst awaiting his question. It was only fair for him (should he wish) to continue any further conversation with me.

“AhveonlyjustmovedheredenoightIbumpedintoyerwasfirsttimeahvelefmebarn (breath) IcomefromIrlandbutyercanprobablytelldatbyme accent! (breath) DispubissoundandGeorgeseemslikeagrandguyItakeitdisis yourlocal?”

Ah. That was a question. There was a definite intonation at the end of that sentence. It was time to employ operation Nod & Smile.

Silence. Now it was my turn to ask a question (that was my conversational rule).

“Do you like puppies?”

I praised myself on the skill of posing such a closed question, who on earth disliked puppies? At least I’d be able to understand his answer and give subsequent agreement.

“Aye.”

My nodding and smiling held a more definite air this time.

“HaveyereverbeentaDublin?”

I nodded and smiled.

“Do you like rainbows?” (Another excellent selection of likeable noun).

Jay’s brow appeared to crumple slightly and he faltered in his answer.

“Aye.”

I let out a broad grin and flicked up my eyebrows to signal my concurrence.

Jays turn.

“Whatpartyerlikebest?”

I nodded and smiled and quickly began my next question; “Do you like baby pandas?”

Jay sat back in his chair and tilted his head. A smile crept over his face and I took that as none-verbal “yes.”

“Me too!!”

We spent a couple of minutes smiling inanely at each other in silence. I decided this was the perfect happy medium to spend the duration of the date. Jay silently enjoying the décor (myself) whilst I stared through his amazingly blue eyes.

This excellent status quo was inconsiderately broken by Jay speaking.

“I’m so sorry Shoirley, I’m a bit…nervous.”

Nod, smile and (for emphasis) “aha.” Wait! I understood that! I think?

Jay chuckled, “I do have a habit of speaking quickly when I meet beautiful ewes… like you…”

My relief was euphoric. I had to use all my powers of self-discipline to prevent me from leaping on the table shouting “YESSSSSS!!!!! I UNDERSTAND HIM!!! YESS YESS YESSS!!”

After a long exhale and a couple of thought filled minutes (mostly about celebratory fist pumps and shouts of “Woohoos!”) I felt I was ready to rejoin the conversation. I told Jay not to be so worried (but not to stop the compliments) and he seemed to appear relaxed as his mouth was broadly grinning.

I smiled and told him how I thought our meeting would be filled with silence and gazing at eachother, “Not that that’s a problem of course, you are blessed with the most magnificent eyes…”

For a few minutes Jay’s shoulders continued to bounce with laughter and if I’m not mistaken, his cheeks deepened their rose hue.

Once Jay had slowed his conversational pace to a sensible speed, the confabulation greatly improved in variety. We discussed a number of important getting-to-know-you  topics (my favourites include; whose farmer was the worst, the best way to halt the appearance of ageing and if you had to be a vegetable what would you be and why? Mine was instantly superior to Jay’s- why would anyone want to look like a pumpkin? A courgette is much more slender and classy.)

After a couple of hours the front doors shuddered open and I peered over Jay’s shoulder to view the pub’s new clientele (as the pub was lacking of customers other than ourselves this was not a hard task to complete).

Laura Lamb had just entered accompanied by a stranger.

I tried to concentrate on conversation but struggled to look anywhere other than Laura Lamb’s table for two. Who was she with? Was she on a date? Why was I so interested?

S x

Path Chess & Translation Difficulties

The morning’s work at the petting zoo passed by relatively easily with only two annoying instances occuring (one minor attempted to plait my wool and the other tried to smear a freshly picked bogey over me). When lunch break came I escaped the zoo to retrieve my phone, maybe  Jay had finally got round to contacting me?

“Oh hello Giles. Excuse me please. You’re in my way.”

The zoo’s buck was blocking my handbag-finding route and he didn’t appear keen to yeild. I needed to pull an epic passive aggressive manoeuvre so not to disrupt the workplace “camaraderie” Father McGarthy was so insistent upon.

“Giles you’re in the way, can you just move, can I squeeze, MOVE OUT THE WAY.”

Unfortunately this information didn’t seem to compute with Giles as he continued to employ expert blocking techniques (Michael Jordan would have nodded in approval). What on earth was he thinking?

“I haven’t got time for this, do you want something?”

Giles’ nimble trotters suddenly stopped their obstructing dance and he looked on the verge of speech (both actions taking longer than necessary to complete). I gave sharp “tut” to signify my annoyance.

“Spit it out! If you’re going to say something then say it. If you’re going to lecture me on something then hurry up, I have an important telecommunication due in. Is it the fact that I only use the disabled toilets at work? Because I told you, I like to have my own private space and can’t feel the level of calm needed when in a cubicle. My claustrophobia kicks in. So if you’re going to grass on me then go ahead, I don’t care. Now, MOVE!”

Expecting the billy goat to move to one side I rushed to my phone. Giles didn’t even flinch and remained in the same spot. I should have  used further diplomatic tactics but instead called upon the art of distraction to make my pass.

“LOOK! A SPARKLING PURPLE SQUIRREL!!”

Maybe my choice of diversion method didn’t hold the requisite level of realism as Giles still didn’t move.

“Shirley, I was wondering if you…”

“LOOK! A DANCING TORTOISE!!”

Again, my description didn’t provoke the desired reaction. This was like playing a game of path-chess against Kasparov.

“…you don’t have to…but if you want….”

“LOOK! IT’S DAVID BECKHAM! AND HE’S FLYING!”

“…go for those drinks I told you about?”

I had to hand it to him; that was an impressive move. I took a moment to calculate my turn; I couldn’t allow him to think I was in any way flummoxed.

“Giles. You are aware that we don’t like each other? That is the unspoken deal that we have going on, is it not? You’d take the prime position of the zoo and make under-the-breath insults towards me- all of which were audible by the way, I may not have perfect 3D vision but I’m not deaf-and I’d make the fiercest of hateful looks at you. Why do you want a drink, have you moved your spite up a notch? I’d prefer our hate ridden relationship to be kept at work. Now move.”

Giles realised I had outplayed him, he’d left his queen sleeping on B8 and like a hawk I swiped in and took it. Take. That.

By the time I reached my phone I was rewarded with 2 messages, 5 calls and 1 voicemail all from one number.

10:36amHi Shirley, Jay here, we met the other night? How are you? x

10:42am Hi Shirley, if you’re about this week it would be great to meet up? x

I squealed with delight and gave my thanks to Shantelle for passing on my number (I wouldn’t express this verbally of course, wouldn’t want her to be pleased with herself. Her face is genetically smug as it is).

Like an infant at Christmas I moved on to my next digital present; my 1 new voice message. The sound of Jay’s voice brought back memories of the night and I rejoiced at how Shantelle could yet again be correct- he was an aesthetically pleasing ram.

The message itself was incomprehensible (due to my appalling grasp of any other dialect other than Home Counties) but he delivered in in such a lightheaded jovial manner that I couldn’t help but smile. After the third listening I can confidently determine three things:

• He was speaking in English
• He said the word “Hi”
• When he said the word “Shoirley” he meant “Shirley”

Despite not being able to decifer the majority of Jay’s voice message (around 85%), I silently congratulated him on his excellent text speak. All the wording made perfect sense (he used capitals AND punctuation marks!) and I felt at ease in communicating with him. This may be the only method we’d ever be able to converse but at least there’d be a shared sense of comprehension.

Hi Jay! I’d love to go for drinks with you! Free tomorrow? S x

After pressing “Send” an immense sense of panic washed over me,

P.S Don’t call me as I’m very busy. Just text. S x

When I rejoined the zoo I made a mental note to bring a notepad and pen to any meeting with Jay to ease any talking difficulties.

S x

Deciphering Shirley

Last night I was fortunate enough to experience an impromptu visit from Shantelle. Most of her conversation was severely hindered by the munching of fried food stuff but I endeavoured to comprehend the news being delivered.

SHANTELLE: Diff shay monfaff vu?

SHIRLEY: Did shame Monday too?

SHANTELLE: Nom! Miff Shay conflap ooh?

SHIRLEY: Myth shade contract room?

SHANTELLE: NOM! DIV SHAYE CONLAC OU!

SHIRLEY: For goodness sake Shantelle swallow that mouthful of stodge and say it again.

I watched in silence as Shantelle finished her packet of crisps followed by wiping of hooves together(to rid any pesky crumbs- I was surprised she didn’t employ her usual sucking every last trace of flavour/fat).

SHIRLEY: Ready to try again? I can see you looking at that packet of Wotsits you know, don’t you dare even think about- HEY! Shantelle focus! Repeat what you were trying to say or I’ll eat the whole packet myself.

SHANTELLE: Did Jay contact you?

SHIRLEY: Jay? Who’s Jay? Why on earth would he contact me?

SHANTELLE: The Irish ram? He said he bumped into you the other night on the corner of Old Fore Street?

SHIRLEY: Bumped into me? The other night was full of coincidental meets it’s difficult to determine who he was.

SHANTELLE: Hishay mumfinnba muck inn mil.

SHIRLEY: Swallow please Shantelle.

SHANTELLE: He said something about Notting Hill?

I allowed Shantelle to chew a fresh mouthful whilst contemplating who the stranger could be. There was a creature who rudely barged into me on the corner and pretended to be a film star. Coming to think about it, he did sound foreign…

SHIRLEY: Do you mean the Swedish one?

SHANTELLE: No he’s definitely Irish. He told me himself. Plus the strong accent gave it away.

SHIRLEY: Oh. But I bet he has a Nordic parent, I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. At the time I thought he was attempting to place me under a weird Viking spell or something. Shantelle before you go for that batch of crisps in your hoof can you tell me why he would want to contact me?

SHANTELLE: He went around the local farms looking for you; apparently you caused quite a stir in his heart.

I tried to hide my smirk but then realised the only audience member had their head wedged in a fried potato crisp casing.

SHIRLEY: Well that is the natural reaction of most males I suppose. But tell me Shantelle, was this James good looking? Give him a rating. Robert Cowpattison being ten.

SHANTELLE: It’s Jay not James and he’s absolutely definitely a seven, or maybe an eight?

SHIRLEY: Now this is interesting. Very interesting. How did he manage to get my number?

SHANTELLE: He asked me for it so I gave it to him.

I sighed and deemed it unnecessary to challenge Shantelle for her reasoning. I’ve already told her the dangers of giving away my number to random strangers (not many random strangers try to acquire my number, in fact this was the first one) so maybe I should develop a more relaxed approach to number mutuality. After all, when there’s a free date on the table one shouldn’t be too stringent.

SHIRLEY: Well he hasn’t text me. Perhaps it was a passing swirl of romantic intrigue I’d inadvertently caused. Or… you delivered my number incorrectly. Yes, this is most likely seeing as you struggle with the difference between the number six and nine.

Shantelle shook her head violently and caused a shower of crumbs to cascade over the entire barn floor.

SHANTELLE: No! It was definitely your number because I showed him my phone displaying the numerals. If he fails to communicate with you it would be down to his incompetency in retrieval rather than an inadequacy in my numeric delivery.

I didn’t want to stare at my phone for too long but after Shantelle revealed I could soon be receiving a text from a hunky Northern European/Celt/foreigner I couldn’t help but hope.

S x

Friends Reunited.

Steve stared at the ceiling light and repeatedly cleared his throat. I had positioned myself on the bar stool opposite and resolved to not speak a single word. My steely glare would convey all of my feelings. If the ram wanted to speak with me it was best for him to say the first word; I was not to provoke him. He had ignored me for all this time, if he wanted to be my friend he should be the first to speak.

A bottle of my favourite Pinot arrived at our table and I swiftly poured healthy doses into both glasses. If Steve lacked the confidence to speak/apologise then maybe the Pinot could give him a nudge?

Through strict resolve and self-discipline, I refused to break the silence that existed between us for the majority of the half hour. He was the one who had the questions to answer, not I (although this did feel like a weird role-reversal; normally it was me who had to answer questions, “I didn’t mean to!” was my favourite retort). The constant stream of throat clearing was starting to aggravate me. Why couldn’t he just speak? I haven’t been silent like this during waking hours for a long time. If he “Ahemed” for the 17^th time then I would have to say something. To check on the health of his throat for starters.

“Ahem”

He forced me into action.

“STEVE! What is wrong with you?! What is wrong with your throat? Why can’t you just start the conversation? Do I always have to do the talking? SPEAK OR THE NEXT ROUND’S ON YOU.”

Steve took a depth breath and looked at me.

“Shirley, I am so so sorry for how I’ve treated you. I’ve been the foulest of friends, all I can offer is my heartfelt apology. You can refuse and I will continue hold you in the same high regard, my best best friend.”

I became stunned, Steve looked absolutely genuine in his heartfelt plea for forgiveness. Maybe he did acknowledge how pitiful he acted towards me and was truly sorry? I tried to speak but forgot that I needed to open my mouth.

Steve suddenly reached over and took my hoof in his.

“I understand that you must still be feeling hurt, utterly understandable, if you need me to leave you alone for a while, a couple of days perhaps? I really don’t mind.”

At the very moment of noticing Steve leaving the table I remembered the science of speech.

“SIT. DOWN. You are not leaving this table until you’ve told me everything. And I mean everything Steve, even if you think you’ve told me absolutely everything we’ll go over it and fill in the gaps. You better order another bottle because this will be a very long and detailed evening.”

Over the next couple of hours Steve explained why he felt he could not enter a marriage contract with Laura Lamb and how he was besotted with Chloé. If I felt at any point he was meandering away from the necessary truth or became fluffy in his reciting of history I made him start again. It was vital that I gained every last oat of truth.

“Chloé is just so amazing, I have never felt so happy in my life! You were right about her, she is truly wonderful. She could have any animal she wanted but she wants to date me, I’m truly flattered.”

Steve fulfilled his obligation to tell me why he held such a high regard (although he confused me when he repeatedly described Chloé as a Head-on-a-Stick, she wasn’t that skinny). I halted the conversation before Steve got too impassioned, I didn’t want him escaping the pub and leaping into Chloé’s arms

“But Steve, have you not even considered Laura? How she’s felt over the past few months? I mean, I’m not her biggest fan but even I started to feel what some might call “begrudging sympathy”. The poor lamb even spent the night here hoping to see you.”

Steve sat motionless and began to stare at the ceiling light again.

“If it wasn’t for me I don’t know what she would have done. I’ve never seen Laura like that before, she’s normally so…annoying…ly happy. Since you called the wedding off she’s not even half the mammal she was. In fact, she’s not even a quarter. No, she’s barely a loin. You’ve wrecked her life Steve, did that even register in your shallow infatuated, self-conceited brain? I never thought that you, someone who I have always held the upmost respect for, could act in such a pernicious and unjustifiable manner. You lost a lot of my respect when I saw how distraught Laura was.”

I took a bow to an imaginary audience. I think I’d just delivered one of the finest speeches I am ever likely to make (unless someone happens to give me the new Fendi handbag as a present, then I’d offer them the finest vocal delivery of gratitude).

Steve remained staring at the ceiling. Now it was my turn to do the hoof-holding and I placed my hoof in his. I judged Steve was entering “What have I done?” mode.

“It’s alright, take as long as you need. I’ll get the next bottle in.”

Steve didn’t say much but by the end of the night I could have sworn I witnessed his left eye glistening even more than usual.

S x

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The Clock is Ticking…Jack Baaaauer has nothing on me.

20:00

“Shirley? I have news! You’ve gotta be quick though, you have an hour- exactly one hour. Nothing more nothing less. An hour.”

It wasn’t unusual to receive an incomprehensible message from Shantelle. Throughout our drawn out and frankly tiresome “friendship” I’d become adept at deciphering her useless mouth garbish.

“An hour for what Shantelle? You still have yet to learn the art of delivery. Do we have to run through the rules again? Rule 1; It is important to remember details?”

I could hear the sound of a crisp packet being opened (and if I’m not mistaken, the sound of saliva dripping on the mouth piece). I allowed her 4 seconds before imploring her for a response.

“SHANTELLE?! FOCUS! I’M MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE SATURATED FAT FOOD PRODUCT YOU’RE ABOUT TO CRAM IN YOUR GUT.”

“Sorry Shirl, you’ve got exactly an hour to get to the Essense Beauty Bar just off Old Fore Street. It’s a well known secret that Steve goes there every Tuesday night for his weekly eyebrow trimming. It seems he’s turned quite metrosexual over these past few months, what with his hedonistic passionate affair with Chloe. You’ve gotta be quick though, he’s only about for an hour before sneaking back to the barn. Make haste and…”

Oh dear, she was going to try and be dramatic.

“And what Shantelle?”

“…good luck.”

I hastily rushed to apply my make-up and made the necessary amount of outfit changes before leaving the barn.

20:21

Just before reaching the barn’s exit I was interrupted by a vaguely familiar feline.

“Shirley? Do you… remember me?”

I hit a bump in the road to find Steve. Instead of ignoring the creature before me I thought it best to investigate the matter. He could, afterall, be my most adoring fan. I shouldn’t dust off one of my superfans in such a callous way.

“Erm, would you hate me forever and a day if I said “No”?”

The interrupter of my mission looked slightly saddened as he opened his mouth to reply. My lightning sharp brain performed a succession of calculations to halt the being from speaking.

“Wait-should I remember you? Would remembering you help my current situation in anyway? Because I’m in a rush you know, I’m working on a countdown.”

He looked a little taken a back and dropped his head. He could, after all, be my most adoring fan. I shouldn’t dust off one of my SuperFans in such a callous way.

“Look strange furry mammal, I haven’t got the foggiest who you are and as I’m on a deadline I need to go. If you want me to sign anything you best be quick for I have a countdown”

The silent stranger didn’t raise his head as I bounded down the street towards the beauty parlour. I heard a desperate shout of  “MY NAME’S DAVE!!” but I neglected to spend any time remembering him.

The BEEPS in my head started to get louder as the seconds ticked by.

21:39

I couldn’t spend too long congratulating myself on reaching the corner of the green in record time (it must have been 52 seconds) for fear of missing Steve. This was my chance to come face to face with the ram who has treated me in the most terrible manner. A ram who’s been completely unresponsive to his life-long friend/ drinking partner’s desperate pleas. He better have some answers.

Without a moment to spare I raced around the corner and let out an agonised scream. Something had just clashed into me. And I think it hurt.

“SORRY! Didn’t clap yer der! Ye gran’ so?”

I rubbed my head and decided I must have received a severe blow to my head so should feel (and act) concussed. The strange speaking white fluffing thing moved toward me and held out a hoof.

“Dat wus qoite a bump wasn’t it? Yer gave me qoite a jolt too!”

My concussion must have affected my ears because this being sounded funny. Overcoming my physical symptoms I managed to question the burly ram.

“Where are we? Am I in Notting Hill? Are you Hugh Grant? I’m not sure but I think I could be Julia Roberts, have I got orange juice down me?”

The stranger started to chuckle and helped me to my 4 feet.

“Oi’m afraid none av dat is true so ’tis. oi’m not ‘ugh Grant oi’m Jay, an’ you’re not Julia Roberts but yer are bootiful.”

Once my concussion had left me I took a good stare at the creature before me. Despite not understanding his language I felt it rude not to thank him for such a kind and chivalrous act.

“I thank you for such a kind and chivalrous act.”

I turned to leave but the wannabe Hugh Grant interrupted my getaway, again.

“Wud yer loike ter go oyt wi’ me? jist for wan date?”

I huffed and made it clear I couldn’t understand his bizarre language. It sounded Icelandic? With a possible South African twang?

“I HAVE TO GO NOW. BYE. BYE.”

I gave a wave as I once heard it’s one of the few acceptable universal hand gestures to perform to strangers.

The BEEPS were getting louder in my head, I needed to increase my pace if I had any hope of meeting Steve.

21:42

The window display of the River Island store interrupted my mission. The shoes were utterly gorgeous and I loved that leather satchel, I wonder how much it is?

21:48

“Hello Shirley. How the devil are you?”

Urrgghhh. I knew that voice. I didn’t want to look behind me as doing so would waste valuable travelling time.

“I can’t say hello as the beeps are getting angry, catch up soon! Ta ra!”

What an effortless dodge I had performed. I didn’t investigate who the enquirer was as I’d judged them by my in-built voice recognition to be someone I didn’t like much. They weren’t worth my time, certainly not under these pressured circumstances. But was I being too hasty? Maybe my sublime and usually correct voice recognition had faltered? Maybe it had incurred a bug of some sort? Maybe one little sneaky glance over my shoulder wouldn’t hurt? Not if such a movement disrupted my time…

“Hi Shirley, I knew you’d look back. How you doing ol’ gal? Fancy a Pinot any time soon?”

Double uurrrgggghhh.

“Hello Sheepdog Joe. How are you? That’s great to hear, must scat, toodles!”

I didn’t want to focus on my dastard inquisitiveness because any allocation of time would detract from my mission. I just internally scolded myself and vowed I wouldn’t be so nosey in the future. I needed to regain my focus but thoughts of Joe kept preventing me.

Did Joe really want to have drinks? It has been over 47 days since I sent a text (unanswered), he couldn’t seriously be considering going out again? Maybe he wasn’t so bored after all? He certainly made no attempt of returning the pigeon post I laboured over. Maybe I should have attached some dog treats to tempt him for a meet?

The beeps awoke me from my stationary contemplation. STEVE! I began my quickened trot once more.

21:52

I didn’t want to get too congratulatory on myself but I had almost accomplished a most important task. My mind slipped into thoughts of rewards to bestow upon myself. That satchel did look lovely. It really would complement my brogue shoes. Yes, once this mission is over I will have to buy it to say “well done Shirley, you’ve done well”.

“Well this is a surprise to see you, thought you’d be tucked up in bed acquiring your much talked about beauty sleep.”

This was a disaster. I had little over 472 seconds before Steve (and his cleanly trimmed eyebrows) would be leaving the beauty salon.

“Oh hello Giles. Please leave me alone, see you at work tomorrow. Hopefully not.”

To my surprise Giles moved uncomfortably closer to me and looked as if he was attempting show emotion with his mouth.

“Giles, what’s your mouth doing? Are you trying to smile?”

Giles sharply snapped back (a highly hazardous movement when one considers the length of his horns.

“Shirley I’m glad I ran into you…I want to talk to you. Privately.”

I took a sharp intake of air for at that moment I understood exactly what he was getting at. The Beeps sharply escalated in volume and I rushed to end the conversation.

“Look I’m really sorry I took your Lord of the Rings work mug but I was desperate of a coffee the other morning and I forgot that I don’t actually have a coffee mug kept at work because I just steal crockery from other workers I haven’t lost it or anything it’s just that I think I’ve forgotten where I put it last in fact I think I saw Archie the guinea pig using it so I would probably go after him to get it back must go!”

My whole body channelled Pamela Anderson and dramatically ran down the final straight (with the theme tune of Baywatch accompanying my sweeping running motion). I had less than 22 seconds before Steve stepped out of the entrance of the salon.

21:00

With the poise and grace of the Bolshoi’s finest, I came to a stop just in front of the salon doors and waited for any hint of Steve.

When I saw him (and his eyebrows) emerge from the treatment room I prepared for showtime, this needed to be excellent. I really think my natural flare for acting is one of my greatest unused talents, alongside my show stopping looks and, let’s be honest, incredibly pert rear buttocks. What’s taking him so long? I needed to accidentally bump into him.

Impatience got the better of me, I couldn’t bear anymore of Steve’s post-plucking chit-chat with the beauty therapist.

I tapped the glass door with my hoof.

21:07

“STEVE!!!”

I feigned shock (not the first time) and bemusement (a skill that sometimes comes naturally) as it was imperative he believed it complete chance that we happened to be at the same place at the same time.

The moment his trotters hit the high-street I lurched toward him. Unfortunately I applied too much force and we both ended up flat out on the pavement.

After a few moments of composure and diagnosis (was this concussion #2?) I began to speak.

“Steve, isn’t this an extraordinary chance meeting? I mean, isn’t it odd how we just happened to bump into each other? What are the chances? Wow, life eh?”

Steve cleared his throat before taking my hoofs to lift me up. I apologised again, this time with a hint of embarrassment (it had BAFTA Winning moment written all over it).

“Oh Steve, I’m so sorry to have bumped into you, accidentally, it’s just that I’m rushing to the Rose & Crown. There’s a rumour circulating that they have a special offer on Pinot tonight….and after the day I’ve had….well I wouldn’t want to bore you with it….”

Steve cleared his voice (again) and looked me in the eyes.

“Shirl. There is something I wanted to speak to you about.”

I took these words as an invitation and hooked my arms through his and frogmarched him to the pub.

Now that I’d secured his attention I wasn’t going to let him get away easily.

S x

How to clean your house.

I managed to escort Laura to my barn without causing too much attention. I hate when scrutinizing eyes of strangers witness me in undesirable situations (being touching distance of Laura was the most undesirable of circumstances).

Once Laura had daintily positioned herself by the window (which I hastily shut to prevent said scrutinizing eyes from gawping) I unloaded all my knowledge of Steve and Chloe’s affair.

I tried my best to detract from the most sordid ugly details but after a while, Laura started to rock back and forth. “No. I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. You’re lying to me. You’re definitely lying to me.”

Before I entered full blown Charles & Eddie mode I stated that I wasn’t lying to her (I didn’t call her “baby” by the way). I soon noticed Laura’s left hoof was quite noticeably trembling.

“Yeh, apparently they’ve been going at it from dusk ‘til dawn. The only time they leave the barn is for essentials like food as well as oxygen.”

Laura’s tremble quickly spread to her other hoofs.

“It explains loads though. Like why he’s been neglecting my texts. And yours too, I suppose.”

Laura’s noticeable tremble grew in fierceness.

“Yeh, thank god he cancelled. Before all that Love Honour and Obey cow excrement.”

Laura’s torso joined the clan of trembling body-parts and started to judder in random directions.

“Laura, control yourself. This really isn’t the best time to body-pop. You should reserve those moves for Saturday’s 80’s themed disco.”

Soon it was too late, my words became useless in their attempt  to tame her dramatic (overly so in my opinion) screaming and sniffing. Failing to formulate any words of support/kindness/sympathy I resorted to flinging her an old garment (last season’s asymmetrical cut dress) in the hope of distraction.

It worked. Her attention briefly shifted from utter distress and inner agony to curiosity and  gratefulness (presumably).

“Have it, I would never wear an item that has been out of fashion for such a long time. Keep it, it would look alright on you. It might even improve the appearance of your shoulders. Make them appear less….bulky.”

My sincerest offering was soon met with another batch of sobbing but I persevered. I’d struck upon the most ingenious idea; I’d finally get round to cleaning out my boudoir. In doing so I would achieve two highly respectable achievements;

1.  I’d be even more lovely than I already am by offering my much loved possessions to a ewe so dearly in need.

2. My boudoir would be spick and span in no time and I could soon pass from one side of the barn to the other. Hell, I might even find that hamster flippantly bought on a shopping trip last year.

“Thank you Shirley, you’re very kind. I’ll wear it around the farm tomorrow.”

Laura tried to smile but I could see her hoof beginning to shake. Fearing this tremble to erupt into another unwelcome flood of tears I threw a chiffon shawl in her direction.

“The colour will compliment your eyes Laura. It would look great if you team it with some denim.”

Phew. The trembling ceased and we were able to return to our awkward silence. If Laura even hinted at any signs of disappointment I simply placated her with an item of unwanted clothing.

I’m please to say that Laura vacated my barn in seemingly good spirits. Admittedly she had to make five trips in order to deliver her new wardrobe but she never failed to smile each time she arrived to pick up another load.

Despite being able to see my boudoir floor for the first time since Christmas, I still haven’t come across little Harry Hampy.

S x

Trains should only carry strangers.

Image via Wikipedia

During one of my mammoth work commutes I noticed a faintly familiar ewe in the seat opposite me. Whilst staring at their facial features in order to gain some recognition, it began to speak.

“Hey Shirl! How are you?”

There was only one ewe who could sound as saccharinely sweet whilst travelling on a train with seats lined with cheap scratchy coverings.

“Hi Laura. What a surprise to see you here.”

Once I’d finished my lacking of sentiment uttering I sharply turned my head and looked out the window. To my annoyance, this blatant act of ignorance failed to signal I desired no further communication because not long after I’d focussed on the graffiti decorated brick walling of the trackside, Laura began to speak.

“Travelling home from work? How are you finding it? Do you get on well with your co-workers? Spoken to that goat you were telling me about? Must be quite some commute!”

Finding the aerosolised depiction of a dope smoking baboon too visually enjoyable (the striking array of purple and blue hues were magnificent), I took my time to deliver my answer.

“Meh. They’re ok I suppose. The commute is entirely bearable as I find it important to reward myself with a bit of time and tranquillity whereby I encounter little or no interruptions.”

There. That’ll do it. Laura will get the gist and realise I no longer wish to partake in further vocal communication and I can relax and admire the modern yet much scrutinised artwork in peace. Ooh! Someone’s attempted to draw an alien performing the peace-sign!

“Yes, I bet! Is it quite busy where you work? I’ve known friends who worked at petting-zoos and they said some days could be an absolute nightmare!”

I sighed (making sure I didn’t utter any insulting retorts that were circling my head) and tried my best to give a “you betcha!” smile. Although in all honesty I think it probably looked like a sinister grimace.

“Have you heard anything from Steve?”

Ah. I found myself at a Clapham Junction in my head. Do I take the high-speed intercity line of honesty and tell Laura the truth (this will probably lead to instant heartbreak and awkward sympathetic head tilting moment) or do I opt for the once an hour, calls-at-every-station-to- Tattenham Corner train of feigning complete ignorance on the matter (this will require a sharp increase of thinking power which is always undesirable).

Luckily enough the hispanic stranger sat further down the carriage was to prove my saviour. Noticing he had been talking for the entirety of my journey on his mobile phone in Spanish, I grasped the opportunity to break away from the conversation.

“OI! EXCUSE ME! HOLA?! LOOK I KNOW YOU’RE HAVING A CONVERSATION ON THE PHONE BUT COULD YOU SPEAK IN ENGLISH? I FIND IT HARD TO EAVESDROP WHEN YOU’RE SPEAKING A FOREIGN LANGUAGE.”

The gentleman did not oblige and continued his conversation but with a much louder volume.

“Shirley? Have you heard anything from Steve? Please tell me Shirl, anything. Just let me know if he’s well?”

That was the point when I became shackled to delivering the truth. The whole “if he’s well” caught me by surprise. I delayed the moment of delivery for as long as possible as I feared Laura’s outpouring of emotion would cause unwanted attention (it most definitely be Laura that people would feel sorry for and not me; the innocent carrier of bad news).

“Alright Laura, I’ll tell you everything but at first I need your opinion on my new thick-buckled boots I bought last week. I can’t seem to gain the confidence to wear them unless I have a second opinion. Do you fancy popping by my barn to cast your judgement? I can give you all the information I know about Steve once I’ve gained an inner state of zen.”

Laura started to get jittery and teary eyed (again) but I closed my eyes and folded my arms. I wasn’t going to tell her anything until safely out of the uncompromising view of the public. Ignoring Laura’s yelps of “please?” I concentrated on how I was going to broach the subject of Steve and Chloe.

A swift pernicious delivery was the most tantalising option but there was something telling me I should try and be a bit caring.

S x

Why I don’t like playing games.

Late last night (9.48pm) Shantelle phoned me with the most shocking news.

SHANTELLE: Shirley! I’ve been trying to get hold of you all hour. You’ll never guess what I’ve learnt.

(I waited in complete silence, Shantelle couldn’t possibly expect me to make any guesses after no clues; she’s daft but not entirely stupid)

SHANTELLE: Shirley? You’ll never guess what. Go on, guess!

(She did. She actually did.)

SHIRLEY: I don’t know Shantelle, what exciting news do you bring?

SHANTELLE: Guueeeesssssssssss!

SHIRLEY: I’m not going to guess. You haven’t even given any hints.

SHANTELLE: Guessguessguess!!

SHIRLEY: You want me to play Pin-the-guess-tail-on-the-guess-donkey? I hate that game. It’s wasting my time and I have to wash my facemask off in ten minutes.  Why don’t you just tell me? I know- why don’t we play Shantelle-tells-Shirley-her-news?

SHANTELLE: Guess.

SHIRLEY: Bloody hell you’re being serious. Instead of letting me know of any news in an efficient sensible manner you’re making me dance around needlessly whilst causing much distress. You know how sensitive my nerves are, would you even feel guilt if I keeled over and died in a stress induced panic-attack? Reason of death: a silly guessing game unnecessarily conducted.

SHANTELLE: GUESS.

SHIRLEY: FINE!

I sat for moment to consider the most sensible of options; I wanted my first guess to be the correct answer. Oh how funny it would be to succeed in this pointless trial and make Shantelle realise the futility of the task! If I were to be victorious I would have to use my magnificent powers of deduction to offer a precise opening guess. If this “news” was so exciting then the subject must be a common interest and possibly one with a history. Gathering all my skills of probability and calculating who the story might involve, I fired my first guess.

SHIRLEY: Has the tree that looks like a pregnant cow standing on hind legs toppled over?

SHANTELLE: Nope.

SHIRLEY: Really?

SHANTELLE: Yes, now guess again.

SHIRLEY: Someone’s seen the blue sparkling monkey? Because as far as I’m aware, I’m the only one to have witnessed it. Ever.

SHANTELLE: No.

SHIRLEY: Henry VIII’s ghost walked around the North Field?

SHANTELLE: No.

SHIRLEY: Anne Boleyn’s ghost?

SHANTELLE: No.

SHIRLEY: Michael Jackson’s?

SHANTELLE: No. No ghosts.

 SHIRLEY: JUST TELL ME OR I WON’T GIVE YOU THE ½ PRICE 6’’ SUBWAY VOUCHERS I TOLD YOU ABOUT.

SHANTELLE: Ok, well Julie the mare from 3 fields over told Dickie the wood pigeon who carried the message to Danni the stout who made the frankly epic journey eastwards to tell Maureen the mallard who then told Jimmy (who by the way has put on almost twice his bodyweight from his Mars Bar addiction) who walked for almost twenty minutes to tell Pete the annoying cockerel who then alerted everyone to the news but by then practically everyone knew anyway so there really wasn’t any need to crow about it.

Shantelle could sense my anticipation and was obviously savouring the silence and building tension. I could feel my heartbeat increase and my sweat glands perform their duty. If I were to ever be a contestant on The Million Pound Drop this would probably feel the same. As the seconds ticked by I began to experience a recurring thought; Shantelle couldn’t possibly think she’d delivered any news. She couldn’t be that stupid?

SHIRLEY: Is that it? Your exciting news? Your exciting news of nothingness? You told me nothing of interest, I could just watch an inactive JCB Fastrac diesel tractor for half an hour and acquire more information than what you’ve just told me.

SHANTELLE: Oh no, that’s not it.

She was that stupid.

SHANTELLE: A certain ovine has repeatedly been seen walking around a farm. A sheep you know quite well Shirley, a missing ram who just disappeared off the face of the agricultural planet.

SHIRLEY: Can it be? Is it true? Steve?

SHANTELLE: Yes Shirley, Steve has been circling your very own farm for the past few weeks. You haven’t seen him because you’ve been busy working hard at your new job having sweaty 5-year olds shove their chubby fingers up your nostrils.

SHIRLEY: I don’t believe it. Why hasn’t he said hello to me? Or left a note?

SHANTELLE: Jeez Shirl, I know you think I know everything but sometimes I just can’t provide the answers. Anyway, there’s more.

SHIRLEY: More?

SHANTELLE: Yes a lot more. Guess.

SHIRLEY: *!0@#8  ?d*6?J6  !!%”$!  !!^4**

SHANTELLE: He’s had a companion, a female companion. Apparently they’ve fallen head-over-hoofs for each other.

SHIRLEY: Who? Do I know her?

SHANTELLE: Yes Shirl you do, it’s Chloé.

I threw down my phone in shock.

S x

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An interesting but not ideal pub visit

STEVE. IF OUR FRIENDSHIP MEANS ANYTHING TO YOU THEN MEET ME @ ROSE & CROWN TONIGHT AT 7.

I thought a capitalised text might provoke Steve into a meeting. I was fed up with pussy-footing around with coaxes and thought it best to be blunt (a talent that I rarely perform).

I arrived at the pub in good time (only 27 minutes late) and firmly believed that Steve would be waiting for me at the bar (probably having bought a bottle of wine) just like old times.

Instead of finding my much missed companion I discovered a different drinking companion for the night. One who I’d never suspected to find alone in a drinkery such as the Rose & Crown.

After seeing that the entire pub was void of any creature named “Steve” (or anyone fun for that matter) my eyes fell upon a petite woollen figure urgently waving at me. Despite being one donkey length away it took me 6 minutes to realise who the manic waver was.

“Oh. Hello Laura.”

My initial dismay soon vanished when I realised Steve was going to be around. He had obviously got back together with Laura and was probably in the toilet or doing a ram thing like checking the trotterball score outside on his mobile.

I placed myself on the stool next to Laura (not the stool directly next to her but the one next to that. I didn’t want to come across as too friendly, I don’t like her after all).

Within a minute Laura told me three things;

1. Steve has not got back together with her

2. She was only there in the hope he might show up

3. He probably wouldn’t ever go outside to check the scores because, “he doesn’t even like sport that much.”

It didn’t take much to set Laura off on a snot drizzled breakdown. Before starting to encounter any feeling of sympathy I raised my hoof to silence her.

“Calm down Laura. Your appearance is very unbecoming, pull yourself together and blow your nose.” I didn’t alert her to the glob of mucus dangerously lowering itself to her pristine jumper because I deemed her miserable enough as it was.

 “As Steve has not arrived and Shantelle is unusually busy at an all-you-can-eat buffet you’ll have to do as a co-drinker for the night. You do like Pinot don’t you?”

Laura gave a small nod (well, I took it as a nod, it was hard to distinguish from all her tear shuddering). I proceeded to tell her about my run in with Giles and how I felt about the rage inducing goat. She spent most of the one-way conversation with a dazed look it her eyes and after half an hour of telling her every intrinsic part of the story felt it best to gently change the topic.

“So what did you do to make Steve dump you?”

This polite introduction to a conversation topic only served to produce another horrendous batch of tears. It took around 10 or 12 or may 30 minutes (and 3 glasses of wine later) before I could gain any sense out of the ewe.

“He. Just. Disappeared. He hasn’t called text or made any effort to contact me. He’s just gone. What did I do wrong?”

It was at this point that I believed my wine must have come from a dodgy barrel. I started to feel inner twitches of pity. Gazing up at me with tiny balls of teardrops from her eyelashes Laura looked utterly hopeless.

We have both been neglected but as I’m a stronger character and can control my emotions have handled the situation in a far superior manner. Nevertheless, I felt an inclination to reach over the table and touch her arm.

I didn’t of course because I don’t like her but I did move to sit in the seat directly next to her. After an adequate amount of silence and a lot of staring at our drinks (mine drained empty and Laura’s untouched) she lifted her head to speak.

“He was probably paying you a compliment you know.”

I swigged back half of Laura’s glass (it seemed unlikely she’d finish it anyway) and asked who “he” was.

“Giles? The goat you were speaking of earlier. He was probably meaning to be nice.”

My mind’s been marinating over Laura’s words ever since. The more I think about it the more obvious it seems but as I don’t like Laura much I’m reluctant to believe that she’s right. So I won’t.

I have however, angered myself for not identifying the intricate but now obvious signs of kindness from Giles. But how do I endure the work place now? After our last meeting he’d understandably not want to spend another second near me (through fear I might have a spitting fit near him) and I’d be too embarrassed to act normally. A large part of me wanted to ignore the matter (he had afterall grossly offended me on our first meeting) but something kept preventing any beauty sleep. 

I’d ask Chloé her advice on the matter in the morning. That’s if she picks up her phone.

S x