Short Story.....
Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
SIMON
“Why is it……?” thought Simon one day, “why is it that no matter how hard I try I can never open child proof lids? My three year old cousin Claire can.
And why is it that I can’t use ‘easy-pour’ milk cartons and why is it that sandwich packets with the ‘peel here’ labels always split open at the bottom so all the prawns land in my lap?”
Some say Simon is a bit sad. Not so. He’s one of life’s thinkers. He cogitates on all the minor irritations that most of us just accept as another stool in life’s marvelous dung heap. Not that he ever did anything about it of course, but nevertheless he did think about it which at the end of the day is the next best thing to actual physical exertion.
It’s a little like the ‘next month I’ll definitely lose weight/give up smoking/get a new job/join the gym/be nice to my in-laws type scenario which we all partake in from time to time.
Another of Simon’s endearing habits is to begin those awful conversations which leaves his whole audience frustrated.
Kids TV programmes of yester-year is a prime example.
Who really gives a fuck what Pipkins’ monkey friend was called but one still spends hours and hours and hours trying to remember. And is it really so earth shatteringly important to remember what her character did for a job when Joanna Lumley appeared in Coronation Street as ‘interesting’ Ken’s girlfriend?
Hey! Stop the world!
Someone has just remembered what year it was that Benny Hill got to number one! Ring the Kremlin!
Russia will have to give independence to Chechnya now! Piss off!!!!!!
Widely regarded as a good bloke really, if a little irritating on occasion, Simon’s only real fault was his complete lack of fiscal understanding.
Even at the age of 25 he was still unable to grasp the very simple concept of what the civilised world called “MONEY”. Several times had his friends tried to explain that ‘credit cards’ were just that, i.e. a card on which one had credit, the obvious workings of which were that one ‘borrowed’ and then ‘paid back’ money for goods and services, and that’s why they were called ‘credit cards’ rather than ‘spend-what-you-like-and-don’t-worry-about-it-mate-cards’ as Simon would have it. The expression ‘living from hand to mouth’ hardly applied to Simon. To him it was more a case of ‘living from hand, borrowing from leg, loaning to foot, selling arm, avoiding paying head, part-payment to nose, hiding from eyes and then if there’s any money left at all, mouth!”
During his latest solemn moments thought, Simon decided enough was enough and it was really about time he sorted his life and finances out once and for all.
A plan began to form, but was it too daring?
Too ridiculous to even contemplate?
Too absurd to ever work?
Only time would tell.
The following Saturday Simon was so nervous he could hardly concentrate on anything else other than the outcome of his so meticulously laid plan.
Having shaved with toothpaste and brushed his teeth with ‘Immac’ the tension was becoming almost too much to bare (his teeth, however, had never felt so clean and fresh).
The rest of the day passed pretty much as a blur.
He had spent most of Wednesday afternoon sizing up the Post Office. Mentally adding up how much money had changed hands; subconsciously working out how many thousands of pounds had ended up behind the counter.
Could he really pull it off?
Would his daring escapade actually work?
Would his vision of financial freedom, a villa in Spain, a Ford Cosworth and his pick of women ever come true?
Time was running out.
The minutes ticked by seemingly endless.
Seconds became minutes, minutes became hours.
Simon desperately needed to answer the call of nature -–in fact he was dying for a really good dump.
You know the type, one of those really satisfying ones that leaves you with a self satisfied grin on your face and by the time it reaches the sea, sinks an oil tanker.
After what seemed like an eternity the time came. Simon’s palms were sweating, his breath came out in shorter and shorter bursts, the amount of adrenaline in Simon’s blood stream at that moment would have precluded him from any competitive athletics for several generations had he been randomly drug tested.
All too soon it was over.
“Bollocks,” said Simon, “not even one fucking number!
I’ve always hated that Dale Winton!!”
THE END
This is copywrited so don't even think about plagurising it or you will all get a f***ing kicking !!!
“Why is it……?” thought Simon one day, “why is it that no matter how hard I try I can never open child proof lids? My three year old cousin Claire can.
And why is it that I can’t use ‘easy-pour’ milk cartons and why is it that sandwich packets with the ‘peel here’ labels always split open at the bottom so all the prawns land in my lap?”
Some say Simon is a bit sad. Not so. He’s one of life’s thinkers. He cogitates on all the minor irritations that most of us just accept as another stool in life’s marvelous dung heap. Not that he ever did anything about it of course, but nevertheless he did think about it which at the end of the day is the next best thing to actual physical exertion.
It’s a little like the ‘next month I’ll definitely lose weight/give up smoking/get a new job/join the gym/be nice to my in-laws type scenario which we all partake in from time to time.
Another of Simon’s endearing habits is to begin those awful conversations which leaves his whole audience frustrated.
Kids TV programmes of yester-year is a prime example.
Who really gives a fuck what Pipkins’ monkey friend was called but one still spends hours and hours and hours trying to remember. And is it really so earth shatteringly important to remember what her character did for a job when Joanna Lumley appeared in Coronation Street as ‘interesting’ Ken’s girlfriend?
Hey! Stop the world!
Someone has just remembered what year it was that Benny Hill got to number one! Ring the Kremlin!
Russia will have to give independence to Chechnya now! Piss off!!!!!!
Widely regarded as a good bloke really, if a little irritating on occasion, Simon’s only real fault was his complete lack of fiscal understanding.
Even at the age of 25 he was still unable to grasp the very simple concept of what the civilised world called “MONEY”. Several times had his friends tried to explain that ‘credit cards’ were just that, i.e. a card on which one had credit, the obvious workings of which were that one ‘borrowed’ and then ‘paid back’ money for goods and services, and that’s why they were called ‘credit cards’ rather than ‘spend-what-you-like-and-don’t-worry-about-it-mate-cards’ as Simon would have it. The expression ‘living from hand to mouth’ hardly applied to Simon. To him it was more a case of ‘living from hand, borrowing from leg, loaning to foot, selling arm, avoiding paying head, part-payment to nose, hiding from eyes and then if there’s any money left at all, mouth!”
During his latest solemn moments thought, Simon decided enough was enough and it was really about time he sorted his life and finances out once and for all.
A plan began to form, but was it too daring?
Too ridiculous to even contemplate?
Too absurd to ever work?
Only time would tell.
The following Saturday Simon was so nervous he could hardly concentrate on anything else other than the outcome of his so meticulously laid plan.
Having shaved with toothpaste and brushed his teeth with ‘Immac’ the tension was becoming almost too much to bare (his teeth, however, had never felt so clean and fresh).
The rest of the day passed pretty much as a blur.
He had spent most of Wednesday afternoon sizing up the Post Office. Mentally adding up how much money had changed hands; subconsciously working out how many thousands of pounds had ended up behind the counter.
Could he really pull it off?
Would his daring escapade actually work?
Would his vision of financial freedom, a villa in Spain, a Ford Cosworth and his pick of women ever come true?
Time was running out.
The minutes ticked by seemingly endless.
Seconds became minutes, minutes became hours.
Simon desperately needed to answer the call of nature -–in fact he was dying for a really good dump.
You know the type, one of those really satisfying ones that leaves you with a self satisfied grin on your face and by the time it reaches the sea, sinks an oil tanker.
After what seemed like an eternity the time came. Simon’s palms were sweating, his breath came out in shorter and shorter bursts, the amount of adrenaline in Simon’s blood stream at that moment would have precluded him from any competitive athletics for several generations had he been randomly drug tested.
All too soon it was over.
“Bollocks,” said Simon, “not even one fucking number!
I’ve always hated that Dale Winton!!”
THE END
This is copywrited so don't even think about plagurising it or you will all get a f***ing kicking !!!
