Devoted exclusively to the creative process. Here you will see photojournaling, poetry, prose, an occasional review--journaling or philosophical writing can be found on our other blogs. This is our attempt to use our imaginations. Enjoy!

Monday, July 10, 2006

Wifred Hardbottle

Wilfred Hardbottle awoke with thoughts of Rosie Sliteworth on his fevered mind.

Wilfred, a widower these past thirty years, was fast approaching his eighty third birthday and had discovered, in recent weeks, a curious sensation deep in his chest whenever he thought about Rosie.

'Indigestion?' he pondered


'Heart attack?'

Then he realised that the sensation wasn't unpleasant at all. In fact it was very nice. Kind of warm and fluffy. It also seemed to reach down to parts that he had begun to forget the proper function of!

'I'll be buggered' he said, although as a very heterosexual (old) male that wasn't an option he would consider not even for large amounts of money and a belly full of beer.

'I'm in love!'

And of course he was.

He leapt out of bed, (well, not really leapt, more gingerly creaked like an ancient and rusted spring), into his carpet slippers and dressing gown. Took his teeth out from the glass that sat beside his bed on the walnut cabinet (they tasted of steredent and vodka) and went slowly down to his kitchen where he made himself a strong pot of tea and a charcoal offering to the gods of buttered toast.
After breakfast he committed himself to a pensioner’s ablutive regime. Shave, shower and something one doesn't mention in polite company, then, dressed in a Marks and Sparks duffle coat and an old pair of army surplus boots he climbed onto his trusty old bicycle.

For a gent of 82, Wilfred was able bodied but Tollshunt Hill was the K2 to his lustful ambition. At times he seemed to be locked in tragic slow mo film sequence where neither he, nor the bike he sat on, seemed to be moving at all but just rested, like a pimple on a ducks back, on the brow of the hill. Then, with the assistance of gravity and his own sheer willpower Wilfred and his bike slid down the other side and freewheeled into the Doctors surgery car park.

He sat patiently for ten minutes or so wheezing like a broken harmonium in the Doctors waiting area and then, fully recovered, once called upon, strode into Doctor Kettle's office.

'Mister Hardbottle, How the devil are you?'

'Doc, I need something to put the iron back into me old pecker. Something to restore me old chap to full upright condition. Something that will steel me loins and put a smile on old widow Sliteworth’s face. Doc I need some Veeagra!'

At this point Doctor Kettle bitterly regretted dipping his ginger nuts into his tea and amid much spluttering and coughing managed a hoarse, 'You need what?'

'Veeagra Doc. My old mans gone a bit limp'

Minutes later and armed with a hearty prescription a smiling Wilfred Hardbottle burst into the local pharmacy.

'Tonight,' thought Wilfred, 'I am going to set fire to Rosie Sliteworth’s passions!’