What’s that rubbish you’re listening to, Wes? Actually, it’s not too bad. Who is it?
That, Allie, is Marc Berthoumieux. He’s French. Cat looks like he’s dressed by Liberace’s brother, George, but he rips through tunes on that accordion like atomic corn through a French goose.
Hmm, he’s certainly dapper. Why you don’t dress dapper, Wes?
I’ve done dapper. From ages one to three, I was rarely seen without a bow tie and Brylcreem, but now I choose to live dapp-free.
You’re no fun.
A white jump suit? Hardly suits my grease-coated lifestyle. Besides, I’m not built for it.
Look at him. He’s a big guy too, but he does dapper.
Maybe, but he’s French. They’re not like real people. Nevertheless, look at his fingers flying all over those buttons. The keyboard on that thing looks like a Byzantine mosaic.
I bet he’s a fast texter. (under her breath) He can massage, me anytime.
Massage?
Message! Message! It was just French pronunciation, Wes.
Are you ogling? How dare you ogle an unsuspecting Frenchperson. So anyway, that tune, Bang Zoom is by Bobby McFerrin.
Nobby McFerret? Oh, Bobby… him: the Don’t Worry, Be Happy guy.
Typical! People only associate him with that song, but he’s a musical genius.
Ho hum. You and your muso-splaining.
Man, his version of Moondance could stop your heart.
I like Van’s version.
Van’s version sounds shallow as a toothpaste jingle next to Bobby’s. Here, I’ll play it for you.
Must you? Oh! Look at the time. I’ve erm, got to go to the toilet and wash the floor mats in the car. Rearrange the laundry cupboard. (Rushes from room)
Philistine! Yeah, well, I’m off to El Towno to buy a new hoof rasp. And a white jump suit, haha.
Later,
I’m home. (Wes brandishes hoof rasp)
My hero!
You know it is a truth universally under-acknowledged that horses fart more if the rider is wearing jodhpurs.
Rubbish.
No, I heard that from a bloke at the hoof rasp shop. I always wondered why jodhpurs were cut so roomy in the seat and upper leg. Perhaps pony riders get gassy too. You were in Pony Club as a gal, weren’t you, Alice?
So what?
You must’ve worn a jodhpur or two.
What are you asserting?
I’m not ass-serting anything, Alice. Just wondering whether flatulence…
Stop your crudity at once. You’ll damage the children. Anyway, what took you so long?
You’ll never guess who I gave a lift to.
Alice stands, hand on hip.
Well?
Well, what? You said I’d never guess, so I’m not bothering.
Okay, be that way. It was none other than Frenchy Fargas.
What? That French fruitcake? He gives me the heebies.
I know you two have got history, but…
History? He’s a maniac. He berated me at my own front door.
This is true. Still, forgive and forget, eh?
Never!
He was standing next to a stranded Peugeot waving his fist at a cockatoo.
You should have just driven on, or preferably over him.
I couldn’t just leave the man there. He’d blown a radiator hose.
He blew the poofu valve in his brain years ago, but you wouldn’t see me stopping.
Anyway, once he’d finished dissing native birds, and sundry marsupials, he settled down a bit, and we had a nice chat.
Alice shudders
Guess who his favourite accordionist is?
And how on Earth did that come up, Wes?
Camaraderie of the road, Allie.
I don’t know…Squeezy Fontana? Chesty Bellows?
No. Marc Berthoumieux. The French dude from this morning. He’s got all his CDs. Hums all his tunes.
I’m not very whelmed.
Then things went a bit downhill.
Oh, here we go.
He tried to sell me shares in this business venture he’s cooked up.
What? Howling at the Moon lessons?
Nope, the Paddys Flat Pyramid Plantation.
You’re kidding on my pulling leg, aren’t you?
Nope. Ten thousand bucks and we could have our very own pyramid, once it’s fully grown.
Wes Piddens, you didn’t?
Course not. Thanked him for the tres kind offer, dropped him at Repco and scarpered quick smart.
Thank goodness! He frightens me, Wes.
You’re okay. I’m off to rasp some hoof.
Dogs bark. Horse whinnies. A banging on the door.
Open up, Piddens, you dapper fop! I know she’s in there!
It’s him, Wes! It’s him!
So, you think you can fool Frenchy? Sabotage my hose and take advantage of a stranded motorist. First the parrot and then the stick, giving your woman plenty of time to raid my business office and loot all my accordion CDs. It’s low, that’s what it is. And Repco wouldn’t buy a single pyramid!
Wes!
Let me in! Is that accordion music I hear? Nobody loots Frenchy Fargas! Let me in!
Wes!
A lesson to us all.
and then