DAY EIGHT (Cont'd).............
As I left the hotel, I was almost struck on the head by half a bread roll. I looked up at the grand building and saw the Crone leaning over the balcony, using the style of gesticulation that she normally reserved for visiting tradesmen. I waved at her, praying that the ballustrade would give way, as there was a particularly large lorry approaching at speed.
I crossed quickly and made my way down towards the shipyard. A dear acquaintance of mine used to be in the Royal Navy and said that the best Masssage parlours were always within shouting distance of a shore bound sailor.
Just round the corner, I saw a sign saying "Dockyard East" and noted that it pointed down a working class road, so I took a deep breath and headed off towards the Docks.
Halfway down this road, I noticed that one house was in a shabbier state than the rest. Ivy covered the roof, and a discarded mattress was sprouting weeds in the front garden. There was a goat with its head through the front gate, trying to eat a paper bag that was lying on the pavement. Strange.....
I stopped outside in order to pet the goat, whereupon a chicken started a conversation with me.
"Perrrrc-puk-puk-p'cuurr?" it asked.
Now.....I learnt to speak chicken during a spell in a deserted farmyard near Bethun in Northern France.
I had been beaten up by a couple of Fockers, and had force landed nearby. I had hidden my Hurricane so well, that it was three weeks before I was rescued.
Out of sheer boredom, I had tried to converse with various animals without success, apart from the chickens. However, as I had learnt chicken in French, it was quite hard to understand this English one, as the brain had to do a double translation and my French is not that good, although my chicken remains fluent. She was asking if I was on holiday, or had I moved in somewhere nearby.
"P'cuuurr-c, par'c- puk-pukkerrrr" I replied, but before I could say any more, a window opened and a rather large lady told me to bugger off, otherwise she would have me arrested for using fowl language.
I gave her a look, bade farewell to the Road Island Red, and walked off down the street. "P'kuk" said the chicken, waving her scrawny little wing.
It had started raining as I entered Grapplinghook Road and I had no umbrella, which made me quite embarrassed as I could be mistaken for a foreigner. Several shops loomed in the distance and, as I drew nearer, I could see a pink neon sign saying "Massage" so I broke into a trot to get out of the rain, despite the shrapnel in my right leg.
The front door was boarded up, but there were lights on inside so I went in and found myself in a gloomy passageway with several doors leading off. There was a strange smell, and someone or something was quietly yelping upstairs.
One of the doors opened, and the corridor was suddenly filled by the enormous bulk of a non practising Homo Sapien in a shabby suit.
"Can I 'elp you Guv'nor?" the bulk enquired.
"I'm looking for a relaxing massage" I replied, brushing the drops of rain from my shoulders.
"Well...first of all, I'll 'ave to frisk you" he said, pushing me forcefully up against the sticky wall, "Security an' all that".
I could feel my anger rising as this ape stuck his hands in all of my pockets.
"So in the name of security, everyone who enters this establishment has to have his bottom fondled by a drooling pervert?" I snapped.
"Only doing my job, mate" he grunted, pushing me harder against an embedded piece of chewing gum.
"Well, how lucky you are then that your job is also your hobby." I quipped.
He grabbed my shoulders and spun me round....his stubbled jaw in line with my nose..."I will say this for you mate, you certainly have some balls" he growled.
"Well, you should know" I said as bravely as possible "You've fondled them to the point that you can give an informed opinion"
His bunch of bananas grasped my throat and began to squeeze the life out of me.
"Do you know who I am?" I said, sounding as if I was on helium. "I am Lord Ellpus"
"I dont care if you're a bleedin' cousin to the Queen" he hissed.
"Well...actually......"
"SPANKY? Is that YOU?" a female voice interrupted from the back.
A rather large lady wafted down the corridor to witness the throttling. She wore a pink negligee which revealed a lot more than was considered decent at this time of the morning.
"Put him DOWN, Cyril" she ordered..."He's an old friend of mine from WAY back"
Cyril loosened his grip, and my feet touched ground. I looked at the lady and racked my brain. Damned if I knew who she was. I thanked her for rescuing me, as Cyril loped back to his room looking disappointed.
"Dont tell me you've forgotten" she said, laughing.
"You'll have to give me a mo" I answered "I need to get the old oxygen back to the brain".
"I never wear a watch" she said, winking.
She never wears a watch? what the..? hang on a mo!......I immediately cast my gaze towards her 44D cup and confirmed my suspicions.
"Alice? ....Slack Alice?....Pink Pussycat Club 1974?..." I blurted.
"The one and only" she answered, placing her hands on her hips and shaking her bosom, causing the floorboards to creak ominously.
Alice was quite famous in London during the Seventies, for one reason. Her breasts could tell the time.
Her right breast would position itself to display the minutes, and her left the hour. If right was pointing straight up and left was straight down, one would know that it was six o'clock on the dot. Amazing!
Apparently it was a hereditary thing, as her maternal ancestors used to be taken on board Naval frigates as early as the 1700's, in order to assist the various Captains with their navigation as they plundered remote parts of the world.
At this moment, both of her teats were facing inwards, so I knew that it was a quarter past nine and I had to get a move on. We had a pleasant conversation about the old times, and it turned out that she had semi retired and moved down to the coast, as she had problems with her chest. She found that the pollution in the London air had caused her to lose fifteen minutes a day, but it had now fully recovered.
I told her that I required a thoroughly relaxing massage, and she took me into a red painted room, devoid of furniture apart from an unusual padded table-like thing. She gave me a towel and told me to undress and lie down....she would be back in a couple of minutes.
I did as I was told (one NEVER argued with Alice....hands like a Docker) and lay there looking at the writing on the ceiling, which turned out to be a menu of sorts. There were lots of spelling mistakes and grammatical errors, which was typical of Alice.
You see....Alice was Dyslexic, and this is how she came to be in her present profession. As a young girl, she was looking for a job and answered an ad in her local paper that was offering employment in what she thought was a warehouse. She had obviously misread the wording, and ended up working full time in <ahem> a "gentlemens relax" for ten years, making a fortune in the process.
......I passed the time by reading what was on offer......"Relief Massage.. £15" seemed appealing, as I am always up for donating money to good causes. I wondered what relief charity she gave to whilst I moved down the list. Towards the bottom, I spied "Prostate Massage....£35" and smiled at the obvious spelling mistake.....I felt like a massage in the prostrate position, so I made up my mind to have one of those, followed by the aforementioned massage in aid of charity.
Alice re-entered the room, and locked the door. She took off her negligee which shocked me slightly, as I realised that thrirty five minutes had passed, just like that.
In her hand, she carried the obligatory baby oil and in the other, a large box of Kleenex....maybe she had a slight cold?..
I placed my order with her, trying without success to keep my eyes off the time. I closed my eyes and looked forward to a good de-stressing session..............
