28 pounds: a story

The judge who heard the case of Shylock’s bankruptcy had no objection to accepting the latter’s invitation to dinner a month or so after the proceedings had concluded. It would have seemed to the casual observer that the learned gentleman was frequently persuaded to partake in any activity that involved large quantities of free food, given the extent of his waistline. Any bench on which m’lord sat to give judgment would doubtless have had to be strongly reinforced to prevent scenes of embarrassment should his vast bulk have led to a disastrous collapse.

“So, Mr Shylock”, said the judge as he wiped his mouth after his third extra helping of sticky toffee pudding, “how have you been getting on lately? Any ideas for future income generation?

“Well”, said Shylock, “It’s funny you should mention that, Judge. I have already started a venture that takes my previous business model a stage further.”

“All legal and above board, I trust?” asked the judge.

“But of course”, said Shylock. “How could you possibly think otherwise?

“I can’t imagine”, said the judge.

Shylock proceeded to enlighten the judge.

“If you recall”, he said, “I was formerly in the moneylending trade, and I had an interesting method of persuading people to pay up on time. This involved the extraction of one pound of flesh, from whichever part of their body I decided on at the time.”

“How could I ever forget?” said the judge. “I seem to remember that this was the start of the slippery slope as far as you were concerned, leading to the sorry financial state that brought you to my court.”

“Indeed so”, said Shylock. “But it was also what gave me the idea for starting afresh.”

“You intrigue me”, said the judge. “I don’t see how mutilating people’s bodies and possibly causing them to bleed to death could ever be regarded as both profitable and legal.”

“I assume”, said Shylock as he viewed the vast bulk of the man sitting opposite him, “that you have not given weight loss much active thought of late?”

The judge looked offended. “Are you saying I’m fat?” he asked.

“Well,” said Shylock, “if you were to lose just a little bit of weight you might find it easier to perform certain actions – getting through doorways for example”.

“You might have a point”, the judge conceded. “But I do love my food and I’d hate to be forced to eat nothing but lettuce and vitamin pills”.

“But that’s why my scheme is so brilliant”, said Shylock. “You lose the weight but go on eating just as much as you want. When you think you’ve returned to where you were before, you come back to me and we start all over again.”

“So what do you do?” asked the judge.

“It’s called liposuction,” said Shylock. “I don’t just remove one pound of unsightly fat, I use my recently acquired surgical skills to suck out as many pounds as you want. Under anaesthetic, of course – I’ve learned my lesson as far as that’s concerned”.

“I’m intrigued”, said the judge. “I reckon I could lose a couple of stone quite happily. And you say it’s completely painless?”

“That depends on which package you decide to purchase”, said Shylock. “Some of my patients who have gone for the cheaper options have reported feeling just a modicum of unbearable agony during the procedure.”

“Well in that case put me down for the top of the range option”, said the judge. “What will the cost be, anyway?”

“For 28 pounds?” said Shylock. “Including the anaesthetic, that will come, coincidentally, to just £28”.

“That’s amazing”, said the judge, “where do I sign?”

“Right here”, said Shylock, who whipped out the contract that he had already prepared in the firm expectation of just such an outcome.

***********************

A few weeks later the judge and Shylock met again, once the liposuction had taken place to the immense satisfaction of the former, although – if truth be told – the loss of a mere 28 pounds to his waistline did not make a huge amount of difference to the casual observer of before and after.

“Have you come to pay your bill?” asked Shylock.

“I certainly have”, said the judge as he wrote his cheque. “Pay Mr Shylock the sum of 28 pounds sterling … ”

“Oh dear”, said Shylock, “I don’t think you can have read the small print on the contract. I never said that the whole operation would be performed for £28 in total”.

“That’s true”, said the judge. “You must have meant £28 per pound. That’s much more reasonable from your point of view. I think that comes to £784, so I’ll just make out another cheque.”

“Oh dear again”, said Shylock. “You clearly missed the even smaller print. Although we work in pounds when calculating the amount of fat to be removed, as far as payment terms are concerned we’ve gone metric – it’s amazing how many people don’t realise that. It’s not £28 pounds per pound – it’s £28 per gram. And I’ve reversed my old ‘pound of flesh’ threat – if people don’t pay up I push the fat back in – and to any part of their anatomy that I see fit. It can produce some highly amusing results.

“£28 per gram?” said the ashen-faced judge. “But that will come to an enormous amount.”

“It certainly will”, said Shylock. “To be precise, and rounding down to the nearest pound sterling – I can be generous at times – the sum owed by you to me, with the full weight of contract law to back me up, is £355,616”.

© John Welford

A Bigger Bat

I spend my days hanging around with my mates in the church belfry. When evening comes we pop out for a bite to eat and spend most of the dark hours flitting about catching moths. Sometimes we come across people heading back from the pub, or young couples getting friendly behind the church, and give them a bit of a shock by swooping up to them really close – you should see the expressions on their faces. I love it when the young girls scream and the men try to swat us away – they always miss of course.

This way of living suits me right up to the rafters. Lots of food, plenty of conversation and frequent opportunities for ensuring the next generation is produced – what’s not to like?

A couple of evenings ago my mate Rodney went out a bit early – it wasn’t dark, just twilight really. I think he wanted to show off to the people walking across the churchyard and along the path that leads to the high prison wall about half a mile away. His favourite trick is when somebody has bought a take-away cappuccino at the local Costa and they sit on a bench next to the path to enjoy it. Rodney can either swoop down low and make them spill the drink when he flies an inch from their face, or he can even let go with squirt of pee or poo right into the cup – that’s dead clever, that is. You should see how cross they get, but they can never lay a finger on Rodney who just laughs his stupid little face off as he flies away.

However, Rodney was hardly laughing when he came back to the belfry on the evening in question. He was quivering with fear and his face had gone a very odd colour.

“What’s up with you, Rodders?” I asked. “Did somebody manage to throw their espresso at you?”

“No”, he said, “I’ve seen something terrible out there. I think it must be a giant bat, but it’s not like any of us, or even like the horseshoes from the church across town. I can’t make it out at all.”

“Will you show me?” I asked. “Can we go and find it now?”

But Rodney had no intention of going out again that night. Instead, I went out by myself for a feed a bit later and saw nothing amiss. It was therefore only last night that I was able to persuade Rodney to take me to where he had seen this monster bat. He seemed to be comforted by the fact that there would be two of us to confront whatever it was.

We flitted around for a while and took a few moths, but at first nothing occurred that was out of the ordinary. However, we had just made our way across to the trees next to the prison path when we heard a most extraordinary sound. It was a buzzing noise like a swarm of very angry wasps. We looked towards where the sound seemed to be coming from but there was nothing to be seen at first. Then we saw it, and I could appreciate straight away why Rodney had been so alarmed. If I had been on my own when this thing had appeared I think I would have high-tailed it in panic just as Rodney had done.

All I can say is that it was a very strange-looking bat. It had one eye that seemed to be looking straight at us and it had four rigid legs or arms, each with a wing on top of it. At least, I suppose they were wings, although they simply spun round very fast and were what appeared to be the source of the buzzing sound.

“What the hell is that?” I shouted out to Rodney.

“I was hoping you might know”, Rodney shouted back. “What bothers me is that a bat that size must be eating so many moths that there won’t be any left for us.”

I could see what he was getting at. That thing must have been ten times the size of Rodney or me, and presumably it had an appetite to match. I could just see underneath where the huge eye was, and there was what appeared to be a pouch of some kind. Presumably this was the creature’s stomach, which looked as though it was pretty full already.

I don’t want to give the impression that we had oodles of time in which to study the new bat’s anatomy, because we didn’t. It was moving at just about the speed we could manage, and it was clear that we did not have much time in which to take action. However, the idea that this thing was stealing all our moths was enough to urge us forward. This monster had to be stopped, although it did not appear to be actually eating any moths as it sped on its way. Its destination seemed to be the prison – perhaps that was where it roosted.

Bats don’t have many weapons, so we had the use the ones that we had. I have to admit that Rodney was better at firing pee and poo than I was, thanks to all his practice with the coffee cups, but I can do my bit when the need arises, and this was just such an occasion.

We flew as fast as we could to get into position above the giant bat and let fly. Rodney was perfect – both barrels on to one of the spinning wings, which immediately stopped spinning. My first poo shot missed – I think I got some teenager on the ground who was looking up to watch the monster as it buzzed across. However, my pee shot hit the wing diagonally opposite the one that Rodney had hit. It too stopped working as the buzz turned to a screech and the bat stopped moving forward.

Instead, it lurched off course and headed for the ground which it hit with a crunch. It was a sad end for the giant bat, but – as we thought at the time - no more than it deserved. Bits flew off in several directions and the pouch burst open to release a number of small white packages. Presumably these were what it had been taking back to the prison – for what purpose was anyone’s guess.

I have to say that I was a bit sad afterwards. This new bat had not been eating moths after all, and we had killed it quite unnecessarily. Now that I have told the story, I really hope that the family of that enormous bat can find in their hearts to forgive us.

© John Welford

My Acceptance Speech

To the entire population of the planet Zarg.

I am deeply honoured and humbled to be invited to become your supreme Deity, and I am delighted to accept. This advancement will look absolutely great on my CV and will no doubt be an obvious talking point at any future job interviews. One quick question – is the post hereditary? If so, I am sure that my son will fill the post admirably when the time comes.

I have to admit to a degree of puzzlement as to why you have singled out little old me for this special role, given the countless other billions of sentient beings in the known universe, at least some of whom must be every bit as qualified as me – and some perhaps even more so. Presumably you’ve come across some of the articles I’ve written on various subjects and realised that such undoubted talent cannot go unrewarded. Maybe it was my analysis of Craig Raine’s poem “A Martian Sends a Postcard Home” that gave you the idea – I can see how aliens from other worlds might appreciate that one.

I am also astonished that you were able to read my blog from such a long distance. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I understand Zarg to be at least a thousand light years away from Planet Earth, so your ability to read items on our Internet, so soon after they have been written, suggests that you have access to broadband that is considerably faster than ours and would indeed appear to contradict all the known laws of physics. I only hope that this reply reaches you with the same sort of speed, although I fear that by the time your planet gets to read it the intended recipients will long since have been pushing up whatever counts as daisies in your neck of the Universe.

No matter. Let’s assume that such minor details can be set aside and we are able to proceed with the arrangement you have suggested, namely that for all intents and purposes I will act as your god with immediate effect.

As far as worship goes, I can assure you that my demands will be modest. As you may already know, the people of Planet Earth have gone to great lengths to construct places of worship for their various deities, and many of these buildings have turned out to be remarkable and beautiful edifices. My own country is awash with what we call cathedrals – utterly stupendous places that we would certainly not want to be without – but they are a devil to heat and cost an absolute fortune to maintain. So I just want to say that you don’t need to go those extremes on my behalf – nothing larger than a 3-bed semi is really necessary. If my worship cult takes off in a big way you just build more of them, and if it tails off you’ve then got a ready source of affordable housing.

You’ll need to decide which day of the week to worship me on. Do you have days and weeks, by the way? I’ve no idea how fast your planet spins round, so your day might be as long as our week anyway, or all be over in half an hour. A worship day that was that long or short could be a problem for all concerned.

On the assumption that your days are the same as ours, could I ask that you avoid Mondays and Fridays? I’ve got this part-time evening job on a Monday and I’m busy at New Bold Words on Friday mornings. If I’m being worshipped I’d rather like to be able to wallow in the full effect without too many interruptions, if that’s OK by you.

As for prayers, they will of course be acceptable and I’ll do what I can to answer them, but I do suggest that you get hold of a copy of “Bruce Almighty” before you start encouraging your people to start praying in bulk. As you will discover when you watch the film, your average deity can get completely overwhelmed if this sort of thing gets out of hand, and even with supernatural powers it can prove to be a real downer if you can’t give every prayer its proper consideration. Quality is always better than quantity, in my opinion.

As for the sort of deity I’ll turn out to be, I’d better make it perfectly clear at the outset that I’m all in favour of personal morality – up to a point – and I’m a real stickler for justice and fair dealing, but I’m not really into thunderbolts and smiting. Wrongdoers can expect a severe ticking off, but that will probably be as far as it goes. If you can have a laid back god, that’s me.

Oh, wait a minute, I can see that another email has just come in. This is from the planet Teleos – they apparently want me to be their everlasting deity as well. How flattering! And here’s another – apparently there’s a planet called Gotcha …

OK, you bunch of losers, you’re that lot I met down at the pub last night, aren’t you? Guess what – I take back what I just said about thunderbolts and smiting. I think I feel a smite coming on …

© John Welford

Repeating the Past: a poem

(The challenge was to write a poem that incorporates the sonnet convention of the “volta” or “turn”, by which is meant a change of direction about two-thirds of the way through – after line eight in a 14-line poem)

The Heraclitan river flows

Through every life and every age

What happened once has gone away

Stored in memories remembered

Well or ill, or maybe confined

To myths retold to later folk

And then believed as certain truth,

Confusing less enquiring minds.

A very rich man, just because he could,

Bought Rome’s top job, but it did him no good.

And now we have seen someone I won’t name

Do what you might think is almost the same.

May I quote Mark Twain? Historical time

Does not repeat, although it tends to rhyme.

© John Welford