Kowalksi’s Lament, part 2, a Hazard of Parsnips mini story

Goddamit. Damn it.

Kowlaksi had pinned all his hopes on Sherby57 and now he was wondering why he saw fit to do so.

Ever since Kowalski had become conscious of being drawn to DI Ian, he had been in a maelstrom of despair that only Amaranto clothing can abate. Yes. The only thing that Kowalski had found that regulates his emotions is Amaranto/Papaya Clothing, Matalan’s own brands. That and his Daewoo Matiz. Sure, the other police officers in New York and St. Helen’s found it a bit fruity and continental, but there was no telling what Kowalski might do in a fit of road rage. He played it safe and drove the soothing Matiz. Kowalski was certain that a strapping hunk like him could do some serious damage with a Kowalski tongue-lashing  and he wasn’t that much of a loose cannon that the authors previously suggested he was. Chief Inspector Acorah had repeatedly informed Kowalski that he wasn’t too big to be spanked across his knee. CI Acorah’s secretary and guiding light, Sam, would whisper inaudibly that it was no longer appropriate to say those sort of things and remember what happened to Inspector Saville.

Kowalski had ‘rocked’ up to Sherby 57’s late at night to seek his advice. Kowalski had heard that what Sherby57 didn’t know about love, Haddaway could only ask questions about. Sherby 57 had spent a large part of his young manhood under the tutelage of ‘Style’ and ‘Mystery’ the reknown pick up artists (PUA) and had cultivated a PUA character of his own (Casio’)who could pick up a girl before you could say ‘playboy bunny tattoo’.  Style and Mystery had heard that St. Helen’s and Widnes had the most rocking potatoes and hot bitches and had made a bee line for this chick-topia. There they had ‘hooked up’ (not had sex with) Sherby 57 and they had rewarded his knowledge of the area with dark arts in cat-string-theory.

Kowalski began hammering on Sherby57’s door. It had come off the hinges and was beginning to stick within the door frame. Sherby stood there benignly as this hulking Yank began fixing the frame and sanding the edge of the door.

During this spot of spontaneous DIY Kowalski’s story came tumbling out between sobs. Sheila, crude drawings, Der Naughty Kitty, Clarence and Ian. Sherby 57 knew all of this as he had partly written the story in the pub with World of Sheds but he kindly heard out the sobbing man until all that was left was a dried up husk. Sherby had left it there around breakfast time as he couldn’t stand shredded wheat and delighted that it might torment the post man as he was morbidly scared of Donald Trump. Kowalski was still standing next to it with his hammer and sandpaper in hand looking hopeful.

Sherby cocked his head and leg to one side as he listened intently.

“Listen Kowalski”

Kowalski drew near. So near that Sherby could smell Kowalski’s scent. It was ex-clam-ation! which was quite a feminine scent. Sherby liked it so he wasn’t going to judge, but he liked Angel by Thierry Mugler better.

“there’s only one way to turn you back on to women as you hope”

“yes” breathed Kowalski and closed his eyes ready to receive the learned information he craved.

Sherby57 took this to mean that Kowalski was trying to keep flatulence from escaping. So he lit at match and shooed his cats away from the door so Kowalski couldn’t blame them.

“Listen, Kowlaski, you’ve got to read fifty shades of grey. The whole friggin’ trilogy. It’s the most erotic thing ever written. That is your only hope. Either that or ‘Riders’ by Jilly Cooper. It’ll really have you fancying the birds if that’s what you want”.

“yes it is”

“It’s alright to fancy fellas Kowalski. I mean I don’t and wouldn’t, but it’s alright for you to”

Kowalksi glowered at Sherby and stormed off in the Matiz. He drove straight to the Matalan in Wigan and emerged only when the security guards roughly manhandled him out.

To be continued.

Cabbages are not the Only Vegetable-Part 1.

She didn’t know it before, but she knew it now. The smell of women’s safety smells of cabbages. Who knew? She didn’t. 

Jessica had heard of the all-women hostel nestled in a leafy part of London, but she had never dared to book a room there. What if it turned out not to be safe? What if it was a scam, and she would book her room only to discover that it was a myth, a fabrication, a hushed whisper on a grapevine. She swallowed and pressed ‘book room’. It was really unusual to have a mouse that was activated by her swallowing reflex, but Jessica wasn’t like  other women. So what if it cost millions to develop the swallow-double click mouse…Jessica was a successful odour panel member, and those guys earned £10 and hour. To hell with it!

She had booked it. She had booked a single room at the Greensmith’s House. She was going. She packed her towel. Sheets and other bedding was not required, this was some edgy place. Check in was after 1:30. Check out was 10:30. She beamed in delight. She loved to know check in and check out times. It reminded her of the Kwik Save. 

Jessica had booked a first class ticket as she wanted it to be special from the start. When she woke up that morning she tingled with Anticipation. This was her new Avon Shower gel with a menthol afterglow. She really should buy some more from the girl down the road.  Intrusive questions spilled froth from her frontal lobes. Would there be a kitchenette or a large catering style kitchen with different units? Would there be glasses so she could get a drink? What if she needed a shit and someone was in the next stall in the bogs? Was there a full length mirror in the room so she could check out her jump suit or straighten her fez?  These questions excited her and terrified her in equal measure as she hurtled towards the capital with her Penn State pretzels and complimentary cup of coffee. 

To be continued…


Commitment to Blog

A few weeks back, I made a commitment to myself to blog once weekly. As you can see, I haven’t been doing too badly after a seemingly endless and, I’m sure for you, dear readers, emotional and tense time without regular acorns from the tree of Sheds.

I had  hoped to bring you more Thomas Bangalter’s Bang Altar (a popular feature so far, thanks for all the feedback) and more of the Kowalski mini adventure this week. Primarily because my good friend Sherby57 is unwell and I know that the only thing that will cure his illness is the bezoar, nay, magic bullet of my blog.

Sadly, events have conspired against me, and it’s been a difficult time at Shed Villas, culminating in a difficult night at Wigan A&E. I really think that that A&E needs to consider the comfort of their plastic chairs, especially if you are there for 12 hours. My arse was so numb that I could have had a brazillian bum lift and not felt a thing. Thankfully, my arse is great, so there was no real need for such radical surgery. You’ll just have to take my word for this.

Suffice to say, there is no blog, apart from this metablog. So, just be grateful for something. Hopefully, next week, I’ll be back on track with some rhomboid busting bloggage and all will be well and balanced in the universe.

See you soon

Dr. A.