Hazard of Parsnips, Chapter 17

My lord, can it be true! For the love of Lassiters Lake , that devlish wag and heating system behemoth, Sherby57 has written chapter 17 . He wrote it with his brain and possibly his fingers! Dare you read it?



Catch up with the whole of Hazard of Parnsips here: https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/a-hazard-of-parsnips/

If you’re good, we might record it as a podcast so you can listen to it in the car/baffle chamber/bra generator.

Hazard of Parsnips: Chapter 16


Dear Diary

O my head is in such a whirl! I can scarce contain my ebullience. I feel like a rabbit with a balloon! Oh, diary (can I call you Dave?) I hardly know where to start. So many conflicting feelings, so many thrilling, stomach churning thoughts occupy my consciousness, they tumble out like corks out of a tombola.

Dave, the incident room has been full of heavy tension for so long. Kowalski and I have been glowering at each other for many weeks like tigers circling each other, ready to rip out each other’s gizzards. Ever since Kowalski alighted on these shores, I’ve felt him to be watching me like a solemn hawk. Often, I would find myself on the phone, following a promising lead as to the whereabouts of the elusive Crapper, and I would look up from my notebook, to see his fierce amber eyes fixed on me from above the puzzling Panini sticker album (I wonder if he’d swap me a Peter Crouch or A Zooby Zaretta?). I’d look away quickly, feeling a sense of shame, and my stomach would lurch from the threat.

One day, events unfolded in their mundane usual way. Acorah stared at Sam’s arse and pretended to be American when Kowalski was around, Kowalksi spend his usual abnormal amount of time reading the paper with his mouth set in a firm, grim line and I telephoned the wife after some particularly bothersome thoughts that I experienced. She reassured me, as she usually does. What a girl. I might take her home something nice. Maybe a farm store pizza for tea tonight. Might need to grate a bit more cheese onto it. She sometimes complains they’re al bit threadbare, which I don’t necessarily agree with . Then the phone rang. DC Bottle answered, as I was still a bit unsteady. As I looked up from my notepad where I had been sketching Garfield, I noticed the colour had drained from DC Bottle’s normally green face.

“Chief” he quivered, voice breaking slightly as he held out the telephone.

Kowalski was eyeing me, giving me the ups and downs. I felt compelled to deal with this in the most authoritative manner I could muster. Wish I had some brave powder.

“Hello, Detective Inspector Ian Detective Inspector”

A bolshy, yet exultant voice met my name based statement.

“Ian! It’s Eileen! He’s gone! He’s  still alive and he’s escaped!”

I stood up for effect, but it was good news as well, to be fair.

Despite this, a thrill shot through my usually languid, crumpled body as Kowalski looked over at my form. That got your attention, you arrogant Yank. Standing up, I mean. Must try that again.

“OK, OK, slow down” I begged her and her words tumbled out insensibly peppered between delirious laughter and tears of relief. Get the fuck on with it, sister. I’ve got criminals to catch.

“Ian, oh Ian. Clarence has escaped from the Kitty. He’s wrote me a letter, Ian, there’s so many clues my brave, brave stud has left us, we are sure to find this fiend and stop him before he commits any more atrocities on the sturdy of limb and the ferociously virile”

By this point, I’d put the histrionic mare on speaker phone and at this last comment Kowalksi looked decidedly scared. I could tell he was fearing his own personal safety from DNK. Lord Above, did this yank’s arrogance know no bounds, I thought. No. Came the all too forthcoming answer. This also came from my brain as this was very much an internal dialogue. Oh, Dave, I don’t need to tell you. You understand.

“We’ll be straight round” I informed Miss Bilton. I could feel the sickening drop of adrenaline coursing through the rollercoaster of my blood stream. I realised I needed a massive dump. Damn adrenaline.

As I exited the shitter, Kowalski was loitering around the door, like a bad smell around a worse smell.

“I’m comin with you” he growled.

“fine” I snapped, “but we’re taking my car. I ‘aint gettin’ in no Daewoo Matiz”.

Kowalksi looked a bit put out, but nodded his assent. “I’ll drive” he conceded he leaned towards me.  I could feel his hot breath on my moustache, and he looked into my eyes for just too long. I became uncomfortable and wondered what he was doing. His gaze was unwavering and my heart started thudding like some unholy workmen around my wrecked heart. I was frozen, light a moth in the headlights or a rabbit to a flame and I stared back, not daring to move. My head was spinning, I didn’t know whether he was going to headbutt me or grab me by the throat. He must really love thatMatiz.

Then his hand shot into my trouser pocket. I felt sick. What the fuck???

His gaze was steady, he never tore his eyes from mine.

A small gasp escaped from my lips, I surprised myself. What was he going to do in my trouser pocket, and how long was he going to do it for?

“Long enough”, my brain answered back. I silently told it to shut up. Thoughts do tend to be silent Dave, as they are largely internal experiences.

A slow smile spread across Kowalksi’s face as he drew back from me. He threw something sparkling in the air and caught it in his hand. The keys to my Bedford Rascal.

“let’s go” he said

I gingerly followed him, the thud of blood still loud in my ears. I’d have a chance to recover from our alarming encounter on the way to Bilton’s.

The Rascal rocked like a rollercoaster car as Kowalski jumped in. I wrapped my seatbelt around me, and grabbed the bottom of the seat as if to brace myself. Kowalski fired up the Rascal and flew out of he car park. I had to call him back to get back in the van. Sadly, I couldn’t fly. This crazy yank.

When he got in the van, he threw the engine into first gear and screeched away. His command over the back roads of St Helen’s was so surprising for this new Yorker. Despite the many road works and traffic jams, he threw the car down back roads and across cuttings, like a local.

Kowalski thew the Bedford Rascal around the sexy curves of the st. Helen’s countryside. I found myself wondering what it would be like if Kowalski was following my curves as closely.  I bet it feels amazing, like when you got for a wee when you’ve been busting.  The cab of the rascal was close. Closer than Close. Too close for comfort and inevitably Kowalski’s masterful forearm brushed against my aching thigh whilst he ground the gears.  A jolt of wanton electricity shot through my frame and a shot I sly glance at Kowlski’s face. His rugged visage showed no emotion, as usual. I felt totally betrayed by my own emotions, and pictured myself as a gibbering, shaking, wreck. “Compose yourself, Ian. Compose yourself” I chastised myself. I desperately scrabbled for my faculties. Despite being nowhere near a university.

Soon, all to soon we were drawing close to Bilton’s estate.  I couldn’t help but feel both relieved and disappointed simultaneously, anxious that my outward appearance did not reflect the jumble and chaos crashing against my ribs but I yearned for this journey to go on forever,  at full throttle. To watch this man, to feel this… this, frisson.  It was surely an agony of ecstasy. An ecsony.

I couldn’t help but wonder how I would ever sit straight in the driver’s seat ever again feeling the imprint Kowalski’s impudent buttocks had made in the leatherette. The little lady would think it was her lucky day. The last time she had been even approaching ‘lucky’ in the ‘bumpy cuddles’ department was 5 years ago after the Rainford Turnip festival. The smell or cooked turnips is just so arousing, isn’t it Dave?

No sooner had we ground to a halt on Bilton’s gravel , she tumbled out of the door, breathless and gasping. She needed to work on her circus skills, that’s for sure. Stupid girl. She was gurning all over her stupid face and hugging Kowalski with her stupid arms.




My reply to Walter Dorman


I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been about you. The last time I heard from you, you had send me a photograph of your likeness which did enchant and delight mine eye. Forgive me, dear Walter, but I did share this photograph with my esteemed colleagues at the abbatoir who snatched and grabbed at it, as if you were a piece of meat, or a sturdy carrot or a chunky Staffordshire bull terrier. Sure, I could understand the feelings your photograph would incite in these harridans-what woman would not be sensible of how handsome you are, however I have to own that jealousy stirred deep within me, deep deep within me, so deep, I dare to venture that I felt my very own bowel stir with longing and territoriality. Mine is a jealous bowel, as diagnosed by my consultant bum docto, Mr.Delbert Wilkins.

Moreover, the opinion of the lustful wenches at the abbatoir was to let you make me financially rich, and at some point, we might be together. Do you think you could accept my culture, dear WALTER? To tempt you, I must make you sensible of the high life we live here in East Skemmerlandia. I myself, are envied by the masses as I own a sunbed and a breville pie magic…o WALTER, we could have pies on DEMAND! Any flavour your heart desires! WE could even put diamond in them. I understand that this is probably what you’d like to eat given you come from Diamond Rich Ford Sierra. They make be a bit crunchy, WALTER, but I’m willing to try it because your CULTURE is important to me. Perhaps soom we could be eating our diamond pies, on the Ford Sierra riveria for our holidays. I bet it’s so glamorous, sipping a cool panda pops shandy by the poolside, surrounded by eggs and acrylic nails.

Because of the burning rage incited in me from the jealousy of my colleagues, I went out into the street and howled at the sun-god, Delbert. I screamed “why doest thou mock me?”. He didn’t answer, the worthless deity. Do you worship Delbert in Sierra Cosworth? I hope so, even though he’s a bit shit? If not, it could cause proper cultural differences that I hope we could overcome, by say, a playfight or by stripping off. It’s the only way we resolve such issues here.

O, LITTLE WALTER, can I forward your e-mail to all the people in my e-mail address book and they could rally together and sort you out? See, I myself have no bank account to speak of. My catalogue bills are so substantial that I have ‘bad’ credit. Well, they call it ‘bad credit’ but how can debts amassed to purchase a playboy duvet cover be bad in anyway? It’s sexy credit at least. Maybe it means ‘bad’ in naughty way? Do you know what I mean there, WALTER? I’m insinuating I’m a bit raunchy here. You refer to me as your ‘good friend’. Is that all you see me as, a ‘friend’? Say it isn’t so! In England ‘good friends’ means something really exciting, I’ll let you imagine, with your mind, where the imagination operates largely, as well as secondary imagination, which operates in the nodes of ranvier.

O please reply soon, dear one. I fear my heart cannot last much longer without being sensible of how you are faring. Like shoe fayre.
Yours, truly

A x

Francois, part 3



Oh Francois

My mind harks back to when our love flourished like dead aloe vera. Our love was tinged by the smell of palmers cocoa butter oil, joop, and Kylie Minogue’s light years. Those were the days when the mere suggestion of eastern euopean fags that smelt of burning tyres and virgin trains cappucino would signify great intent. I would tremor at the mere sight of Richard Branson and the sock shop and  paperchase stationary would excite and delight like a bagel cooked in the microwave. Halcyon days. Days where you hoped an egg would never end, and when the ground beneath your feet felt like a mixture of cement, gravel and occasionally, dog turds.

You stole my affections like a turd burglar from a man with many pockets in his coat and the habit of wetting the bed.

And now I look at the manure farmer and the feathery Cs of his downcast, beautiful eyes in a haze of cheap chardonnay. About this time of night, Francois,  we’d be chewing on a coconut and glowering at each other, resentful of why we weren’t garnering more appreciation from each other, ready to rip out each other’s gizzards for telling each other the same old stories with the same old arguments, like a couple of angry duvets. And our down was bunched up at opposite ends of the linen square.

“Why can’t you lo0k more pleased to see me?” I would snarl.

It was hard to speak normally with a muzzle on.

“I am pleased to see you” you would drawl. I never understood why you’d have to sketch your responses to my bad moods.

An uneasy ceasefire would then begin. I don’t know why Francois would insist on dining at ‘The Beirut bar and grill’.

Then we’d walk home. I’d lag 5 meters behind. It was really important to insulate pipes, especially as fuel costs are rocketing. Francois was so wasteful. Once he sprayed a whole can of febreze just on one pillow case.

Then the paradoxical communication would begin. Triangles everywhere. An air of unfairness and injustice hung in the air, like a pair of Hitler’s wet undergarments after he’d walked home in the rain after his Zumba class. It stank the room out. Or was that all the dishes in the sink? Or the overflowing bin. It became so hard to tell whether the stench was from the decay in the house, or the decay in our relationship.