Kevin's Peculiar Talent
Well, I’m up and about again, you’ll be glad to hear and the swelling has definitely started to go down. I must admit that I’m still feeling a bit shaky after the events of last night but at least the gendarme didn’t shoot us, which, I suppose, is some consolation. The thing is, we never would have been under the bridge in the first place if hadn’t been for the German chap in the dodgy wig whose name was Helmut (the chap, that is, not the wig).But just a moment. I know what you are saying to yourself. You are saying, he hasn’t even mentioned the swelling before. Well, no, not in so many words perhaps. But then again, if it hadn’t been for the swelling I wouldn’t have been flat on my back in the first place, would I? And I told you all about that yesterday so you surely can’t have forgotten it already.
Helmut arrived on the scene just as Kevin and I were leaving the hotel following the unfortunate incident with the elephant. To be honest, he didn’t so much arrive on the scene as leapt into it with arms waving and wig flapping in the breeze.
“You are English!” he cried, “I am a doctor!”
“Bugger off!” I wittily riposted. I was in no mood for German doctors with or without wigs of dubious origin. I had suddenly found myself in possession of a large sum of somebody else’s money and my entire thoughts were concentrated upon ways of spending it.
But Helmut was not to be so easily shaken off.
“No, no,” he blathered, “You are English. I am German. I speak English. We must have a drink.”
I have to be honest with you. I couldn’t entirely follow the flow of logic in his reasoning. However, noticing that he was brandishing a cheque book and, deciding it would be impolite to tell him that I was Welsh rather than English, I discreetly tucked away my wad of ill-gotten francs into an inside pocket, smiled sweetly, tugged Kevin briskly by the arm and determined to follow Helmut wheresoever he might go - which, in the event, turned out to be a dimly lit hostelry called Le Jabberwocky. Once inside, Helmut plied us freely with brandy while he regaled us with amusing anecdotes about varicose veins and the debilitating conditions to which they are prone. I thought of the woman who lives in the flat above mine in London. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who’s half as fascinated by varicose veins as Helmut. But Helmut’s interest, unlike hers, was of a professional rather than a personal nature. It was not his own varicose veins that fascinated him but varicose veins in general. It turns out he is one of the world’s most eminent varicose vein specialists and he had come to Paris to deliver a speech at a big varicose vein conference. I tried to look fascinated but I suspect I didn’t fully succeed.
Anyway, we had progressed to our fifth brandies and about the two hundredth interesting complication of the veins of the upper thigh when a large man with a small bushy moustache about the size of a Chihuahua staggered up to our table and said, “You blithering bounder!” in a sort of well-ripened English accent spiced with a dash of French. I noticed that Helmut blenched at the sight of the man. It is true that he didn’t blench very visibly on account of the low level of lighting in that part of the bar but I was watching him closely and if I tell you he blenched, you can take it from me that blench is what he did.
I am not entirely sure what happened next. All I know for certain is that somewhere between Le Jabberwocky and the bridge, we lost Helmut and the man with the Chihuahua moustache while, in their place, I had acquired a pounding headache and a prominent swelling on the back of my head. Kevin is of the opinion that the swelling was caused by a wine bottle and that the wine bottle was, at the moment of impact, clutched in the meaty hand of the man with the Chihuahua moustache. I can’t say for certain if that was the case as I was looking in the opposite direction at the time.
A few seconds later the gendarme arrived. He had a nasty expression on his face and was wagging his finger at us in a way that some people would say was distinctly less than brimming over with entente cordiale. Moreover, he was jabbering away in French which, given the circumstances, seemed uncalled for. As you probably know, French is second nature to me. I speak the language so fluently that, at times, it almost seems to make sense. But just at that moment I couldn’t quite make out what the gendarme was saying on account of the loud ringing in my ears and the stars swirling before my eyes. If you’ve ever been bumped on the back of the head with a wine bottle, you will no doubt have a good idea of what I’m talking about. However, while I couldn’t make out the words, I did get a firm impression that the gendarme was not welcoming us to the beautiful town of Paris and hoping that we would enjoy our stay. I replied, in French, with the perfectly reasonable comment: “Monsieur, nous sommes des sujets de sa gracieuse Majesté, la reine Elizabeth Deux,” which, roughly translated means, “For goodness sake, man, pull yourself together, we’re British.” This did not have the desired calming effect, however, and I swear that I saw the gendarme reaching for his gun when suddenly Kevin did that peculiar thing that he does. I have mentioned Kevin’s peculiar talent before, haven’t I? I must say that until that moment, I hadn’t thought much of it. But when he did it then, it would not be overstating matters to say that I was flabbergasted. And so was the gendarme. In fact he was so flabbergasted that….
Oh, who’s that? Someone’s knocking on the door. I think it’s Kevin. You’ll have to excuse me. The poor boy sounds in a bit of a panic.
More later…
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