Eric pondered. This was not the first
time he had done so. It was the second. He pondered on the point of his
existence for a good half-hour but, unable to come to any conclusions, made off
to the car park. Eric didn’t actually own a car, so the nearest he got to
it was observing other cars, and the local car park was therefore a positive
boon. This had become a regular hobby for him along with stamp-collecting,
harmonica playing, and Star Trek. Eric then bumped into his next-door
neighbour, Mrs Vonk.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To yonder car park’ replied Eric, not entirely sure why he had
used the word ‘yonder.’ Nevertheless, he strode on. He knew what
she was like.
On reaching the car park, Eric walked
both up and down, and made a note of several of the registration numbers for
his collection. Just then a man emerged from one of the cars and began to
walk towards him. The man appeared to be dressed as a policeman.
‘Good afternoon, sir’ he said. ‘I am a policeman.’
‘That explains it,’ thought Eric.
‘Have you seen a suspicious character round here wearing a green
top hat?’
‘No – not since yesterday anyway,’ replied Eric.
‘Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm’ said the policeman, using
far too many ‘m’s. ‘Did you notice what type of green top hat he was
wearing?’
‘From a distance it looked like a 1962 style green top hat.’
‘That can’t be him then – we’re looking for someone with a 1963
style green top hat.’
The policeman left the scene, somewhat
annoyed at being written out of the story. Eric continued to walk around the car park, viewing the various vehicles and noting
down things of no interest. He was determined to publish the definitive book about
car parks, despite the discouragement of several major publishers. Just then, a man called Simon emerged
from one of the cars. Simon looked around warily before getting back in the car
and driving off, never to return. So much for Simon.
Eric sat in the car park and began to
eat his sandwiches. This was a good day. Or it would have been if a large
biscuit tin hadn’t bounced off his head.
‘What do you think you’re doing sitting there having your
sandwiches?’
It was his brother, Colin.
‘If you don’t come back to the house now, I’ll smash your face
in!’
They had never got on.
Colin was tall, thin and
loathsome. He always dressed entirely in mauve, which he claimed made him
stand out.
‘Why can’t I sit out here in the car park?’ asked Eric.
‘Because it’s time for you to make my lunch,’ argued Colin. ‘And
I demand Bovril.’
Colin had never learnt how to make lunch, but he certainly knew
of Bovril (although for a while he thought it was Marmite). They made
their way back to the house. Eric looked over the fence at Mrs Vonk, who was
making something.
‘What are you making, Mrs Vonk?’
‘I’ll know what it is when I’ve finished,’ she replied
confidently, yet with a hint of fear.
Colin ushered Eric inside and demanded
a Bovril sandwich ‘with radishes in it.’
‘We haven’t got any radishes,’ Eric protested.
‘What is this, No Radish Day?’ countered Colin, knowing full
well that it was.
Eric entered the dimly-lit house.
‘What is it with all this dim lighting?’ asked
Colin.
‘The house is in such poor condition it’s best if you can’t see
it,’ said Eric.
Eric made Colin's lunch and then decided to go to work. He set off for the office. He then
arrived at the office.
‘That was quick’ he thought.
Eric was not popular with his boss, nor
with his work colleagues, nor indeed with anyone else. He was, all things
considered, unpopular. Eric sat at his desk and pondered – something at
which he was becoming increasingly adept. Now what was it he did again?
He consulted his colleagues, who seemed to be of no help, so he just sat there.
‘Don’t just sit there!’ thundered the boss.
Eric worked in a very ordinary sort of office, which was why he
was surprised when a piano fell through the ceiling.
‘Whose piano is that??’ shouted the boss, enraged by this
distraction.
‘It belongs to Mr Grundfos-Jones,’ answered an employee.
‘Eric, you’re not doing anything, go and get him NOW!’ shouted
the boss, using capital letters at the end.
Eric wandered up the stairs to the
office above and assumed the knocking-on-the-door position that had seen him
open so many doors in the past. Three sharp knocks were all that were needed
before the door opened. Things were looking up.
‘Yes?’ said Grundfos-Jones.
‘Did your piano fall through the office ceiling just now?’
‘That's right – what of it?’
‘The boss wants to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
This was proving more difficult than he
had thought.
‘The boss wants to ask you why your piano fell through the
ceiling.’
‘Tell him it’s none of his business.’
‘But it IS his business. And your piano just fell through his ceiling. ’
'All right all right, keep your hair on. I'll get a
cloth.'
Eric and Grundfos-Jones made the
long slow descent down the stairs before entering the hallowed quarters of
the boss.
‘Now look here Grundfos-Jones, why did your piano
fall through my office ceiling this morning?’
‘I’m not sure.’
'Well find out!'
'Very well sir, I'll employ a piano consultant to look into it.'
Eric sighed sighingly. It had been a peculiar morning. He
sat at his desk again, at which point a second piano fell through the ceiling
and landed directly on top of it. Eric made a mental note to ask for another
desk. Fed up with pianos falling through the ceiling, he decided to take
the rest of the day off. What should he do? Spend the afternoon shooting the
breeze at the dry cleaners? Visit the Petroleum Museum? Or simply sit in the
middle of the office floor meditating? No, that hadn’t ended well last
time, and so he walked over to the local park, where he saw the local park
keeper.
‘Morning Donald,’ he said.
‘My name’s Nigel.’
‘Ah, I was getting you mixed up with Bernard.’
‘Bernard?’
‘Yes, I often call him Donald by mistake as well.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Oh er – nothing.’
‘Then here it is,’ said the Park Keeper, handing him a large
empty bag. Eric took it and walked on. He knew when he wasn’t wanted, which was
all the time.
‘All right?’ asked a passing squirrel.
‘Er – yes thank you’ replied Eric, slightly startled.
‘What’s the matter – haven’t you ever seen a talking squirrel
before?’
Eric suddenly felt rather foolish.
‘Having a good day?’ the squirrel asked.
‘Not really. A piano nearly fell on me.’
‘Well at least it missed you.’
Eric was nonplussed. How to continue this squirrular
conversation?
‘Another piano nearly fell on me shortly afterwards.’
The squirrel moved away.
Eric left the park and wandered back to
his house. Inspired by his nature-filled jaunt, he decided to plant an elm
tree in the garden. Unfortunately, the nearest elm tree shop was four hundred
miles away, but undaunted, he decided to take the bus.
