WRITER'S CRAMP
Sundry Efforts
MRS LARGEPIECE GETS IT WRONG
by Frank Swales
It is Friday morning. Mrs Largepiece telephones the local undertaker to arrange the funeral of her grumpy old Uncle Silas, to take place on the following Monday. It's a thankless task, but somebody has to do it. The undertaker promises to send a man round to take details directly after lunch.
Meanwhile, Mrs Softbody in the flat below discovers that she will not be allowed to take her faithful old dog into the sheltered accommodation when she moves next week. A friend says she knows a man who will find the pet a good home. He'll call round to collect the dog this afternoon.
At one o'clock Mrs Largepiece hurries downstairs to answer the Westminster chimes and finds a gormless-looking youth in an orange shell suit and white trainers playing with the bell push and swinging a dog lead in his free hand.
MRS LARGEPIECE: Good God! These YTS trainees are everywhere nowadays. You can't escape them even when you die.
YOUTH: Hello, Missus. I've come to take --
MRS LARGEPIECE: Yes, yes. Come in. Up the stairs, watch how you go.
(SHE BUSTLES HIM UP TO HER ROOM AND SITS HIM ON THE SOFA.)
MRS LARGEPIECE: Now, young man. How will you get him downstairs?
YOUTH: Oh, he's an awkward beggar, is he?
MRS LARGEPIECE: Of course not. Well, not now, anyway. But he is a big fellow. You may have trouble getting him round the corner.
YOUTH: Don't you worry, Missus. I've had lots of experience with the stubborn ones. One sharp tug and he'll be down those stairs like a shot.
(HE SNAPS THE DOG LEAD LIKE A CHEST EXPANDER.)
MRS LARGEPIECE: Not without dignity, I hope. We must remember the finer feelings, after all.
YOUTH: Of course. I have feelings too, you know. I'll treat the old dribbler as if he were my own. Don't you just love the way they slobber all over you?
MRS LARGEPIECE: No.
YOUTH: And poke their noses into everything?
MRS LARGEPIECE: Now that I agree with. He was a nosy old so-and-so. What about the flower arrangements?
YOUTH: Don't worry about the flowers. If he gets among them we'll smack his nose.
MRS LARGEPIECE: What good will that do? He won't feel it.
YOUTH: It doesn't matter how insensitive they are, they get the message eventually.
MRS LARGEPIECE: The message? You're not Church Of England, are you? Into spirits, boy? (SHE WAVES HER HANDS IN FRONT OF HIS FACE AND CHANTS.) Is there anybody there? Do you have a message for me?
YOUTH: Are you feeling alright, Missus?
MRS LARGEPIECE: Yes. Yes, I'm fine. I just thought I'd had a breakthrough. Where will you keep him over the weekend?
YOUTH: Oh, I thought a cardboard box in the kitchen would do for now.
MRS LARGEPIECE: A cardboard box? In the kitchen? Isn't that rather unhygienic?
YOUTH: Don't worry. If he makes a mess I'll rub his nose in it. He won't get into any trouble with me looking after him.
MRS LARGEPIECE: Trouble? He's not likely to be causing much trouble in his condition.
YOUTH: He might look completely knackered to you, but believe me, there'll be life in the old dog yet. You'd be surprised what tricks they get up to, given half a chance.
MRS LARGEPIECE: But that's impossible!
YOUTH: Not at all. Take one I had only last month. Legs stiff as posts --
MRS LARGEPIECE: They would be, wouldn't they? Rigor mortis, I think it's called.
YOUTH: Who? I don't know -- didn't get his name. We called him Droopy, because of his long floppy --
MRS LARGEPIECE: I really don't want to hear about his long floppy --. Young man, your sense of humour is out of place in your line of work.
YOUTH: Huh? What has Tesco's got to do with it? Anyway, as I was saying, the poor old thing couldn't move his legs. I had to carry him everywhere.
MRS LARGEPIECE: Carry him? What on earth were you doing carrying him all over the place?
YOUTH: Arthritis.
MRS LARGEPIECE: Arthr --? I would've thought he'd be past caring about arthritis.
YOUTH: That's my point. As far as I was concerned, he was just about ready for the hole behind the potting shed, poor old bag of bones.
MRS LARGEPIECE: You buried him in the garden?
YOUTH: Eventually. But not before our Johnny's kids had their fun with him. A right pair, those two. Robbie took him for rides round the block in his go-cart, and Emma dressed him up in old frocks and fed him tea and cream cakes. That was a laugh, I can tell you. They even took turns curling up with him in bed at nights, for about a fortnight. But their mum had to stop it eventually -- the smell, you know.
MRS LARGEPIECE: That's sick!
YOUTH: Why? I thought it was a gas. Look, I took a photo of him in bed with Emma. Want to see?
(MRS LARGEPIECE SCREAMS AND RUNS OUT.)
YOUTH: Funny old tart. Now, where's that dog? (LOOKS AROUND AND WHISTLES) Here, boy. (WHISTLES AGAIN). Come on, boy.
The End
© Frank Swales
