On time, in good spirits, wine in hand, I arrived for an afternoon of bbq, beer and banter.
Car outside, front door locked, 2pm.
No answer.
Well, it was Sunday. They were clearly yet to venture outside. Who know’s what they were up to last night?
The home dwellers were 1 year married, party-loving, pre-kids. The day bright.
I persisted.
Another ring of the bell.
Nothing.
They’re not known for long walks or early morning starts. But 2pm?
At this hour, those still in bed risk man-shaped marks, not easily removed by common cleaning products.
A muffled bass line overwhelmed continued efforts to draw attention. Efforts soon turned elsewhere.
To the side of the house sat a slatted wooden gate.
Security not of the highest order, I reached over, found the catch and unbolted with ease.
The gate swung open. Behind it, a clutter of garden equipment, odds and ends.
I picked my way through knowing the time to BBQ was slimming by the second.
Nearing turn from side passage to garden, juvenile thoughts formed a disorderly line, vying for action. How best to surprise?
The simple but effective leaping RRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH
The rather more creepy ninja stealth creep, followed by gentlest shoulder touch
The crouching tiger hidden Duncan
The….
AAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHH NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! {internal reaction}
For action I found.
Stacked like half pound patties in a pair of giant baps, him on top, facing away, bare-back and driving forth for England.
There was no obvious end in sight.
Who knows what entered his mind, when he saw her surprise.
‘Wow’. ‘I really am getting quite good at this’.
Words could not assemble fast enough. ‘OH FUCKKKKKK’ she exclaimed, not helping matters at all.
As I laughed out loud, he began to realise what the hell was happening.
Panic mode set in. Stark cold realisation had slapped him around like a revenge seeking kipper. A furious dash for cover ensued. Arms flailing. Legs scrambling for traction.
Could we get through this and laugh as one?
Nibbling honey-glazed chipolatas accompanied by a extensive selection of hot dips, had lost appeal.
A sample from The Beastie Boys’ ‘B-Boys Makin’ with the Freak Freak’ shot through mind to mouth.
“Shit, if this is gonna be that kind of party, I’m gonna stick my dick in the mashed potatoes!”
I left immediately.