Another Crush story…

But first…
Dulltown, Europe: Today’s special adjectives are: tart, genethliac, pugnacious, swingeing, musive, and bulky. I think my favourite is genethliac, I’m going to try to slip it into conversation today.

An airmail envelope flopped through my letterbox this morning. It was from Veronica Crush, writer from the glory days of the Hull Surrealist League, now living in New York with tall tree surgeon and heir to a multimillion dollar fortune Monty Tick. It contained a longish one of her ‘stories’, and also a nice postcard with a black and white picture of Marcel Duchamp on it.

Geraldine Tennis, having been troubled by spacial anomalies for several months, started doing her shopping only in small local shops…
It had all started soon after she had been hit on the side of the head by a flying champagne cork at the wedding celebration of her ex-manfriend Tommy Pool in Kettering Northants.
The first anomaly occurred the day after the wedding; Gerry was still in Kettering and was on her way to visit old grumpy Uncle Squash who lived on the outskirts of the town. She popped into the branch of W H Smith in The Mall shopping centre to get him a birthday card. There was nothing odd about the shop, it was just like all the other branches of W H Smith she had ever been in. She paid for the card, it was a nice one with a picture of a scowling beady-eyed cassowary on it, she stepped out of the door and found herself outside the branch of W H Smith in the St Nicholas Centre in Aberdeen. She was flabbergasted, as anyone would be – it’s a nice place Aberdeen, but only if you have chosen to be there.
Being a logical sort of person Gerry speculated that this strange teleporting event might have something to do with W H Smith – she also wondered what the W H stood for…
She decided to go back into the shop and then come out again, hoping that she might be whizzed back to the Kettering branch, but no no, it wasn’t so. Luckily Gerry had her credit card with her and so was able to get a train south and eventually deliver the late card to the now very grumpy Uncle Squash.
Back in her home town of Rochdale in Lancashire a week or two later she popped into the branch of Currys on Dane Street to purchase an HDMI cable for her TV. As she paid for the item she noticed that there was a David Attenborough documentary about cassowaries playing on all the TVs in the shop. Once through the door she found that she was stepping out of the branch of Currys on Regents Street Swindon Wiltshire… Damn!…
Fortunately she knew someone in Swindon, another ex-lover, Jean-Claude Lacrosse; she phoned him and within ten minutes they met up in the Flightless Bird cafe for tea and a nice long chat.
Geraldine successfully managed her condition by avoiding chain stores, but one day she desperately need a spanner to adjust the back wheel on her bicycle. She found herself outside her local branch of Machine Mart – she was going to ask some passer-by to go into the shop and get the item for her, but no one would oblige – they just gave her a funny look and walked off shaking their stupid heads. She went in, chancing her arm, bought the tool, and stepped out in front of a company also called Machine Mart, but on W 4th Ave. Denver Colorado. Damn! Having only a small amount of British currency on her she had no chance of flying home. Gerry pondered… She knew it was pointless going in and out of the store, but a thought struck her. She marched back in and told the member of staff that she had changed her mind and would like to return the ‘Cassowary’ brand spanner, er, wrench. The young dude, whose name badge named him as Billy Badminton, was very obliging and reimbursed her in dollar bills. She stepped out into Coventry Road Birmingham – at least she was in the right country now. As she headed for New Street Station she dropped the US currency into the hat of a nearby strumming busker.
The outrageous series of adventures came to an end one day when she found herself outside the branch of MacDonald’s on Steenstraat in Bruges. She went (back) inside and sat at a table to ponder on ways of getting back home, when she was struck a glancing blow on the temple by an old hardback text-book, on ornithology, in French. It had been thrown by an angry academic by the by the name of Professor Karl Snooker sitting at a nearby table with a milkshake – he didn’t like what it had to say about sparrows. Geraldine knew the adventures were over as she looked down at the book lolling open on top of a discarded half cheeseburger and fries on the table. On the left-hand page was a nicely coloured engraving of the flightless bird, Casuarius Unappendiculatus, smirking up at her…

Veronica Crush. 2015.

About Dave Whatt

Grumpy old surrealist artist, musician, postcard maker, bluesman, theatre set designer, and debonair man-about-town. My favourite tools are the plectrum and the pencil...
This entry was posted in brain, drama, dreaming, humour, information, mind, story, style, surrealism, words and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s