Man Of Few Words

Chapter 67

When Julia arrived she greeted me like a long-lost friend, stopping short of hugging me but grasping my upper arms fondly as she bombarded me with the are-you-okays, how-are-yous and I'm-so-sorries that I'm starting to realise I'll just have to accept.

She then surveyed the flat, carefully assessing the extent of the task ahead, and seemed more concerned about the picture it painted of my wellbeing than about the stains, the smells or the considerable workload. Although she did say,

"I sink sree days sis vik, Mr Alexandra. Is okay. I kam Sahnday. More mah-nee zo, okay?"

Her Russian accent isn't actually quite that strong, and I'm honestly not out to mock her. I'm just endlessly amused by writing in accents. Let me have my fun. I'm a dying man.

I agreed to her suggestion and reminded her to call me David. So she started calling me "Dah-feed".

As she got to work, I found myself lingering and making small talk with her. She told me that in between cleaning shifts she's doing a part-time business studies degree and taking English lessons.

"Is hard leeving een Loan-doan," she said. "Werry ixpenseef. Baht een Rah-sha vi say 'veezout tri-yeeng, you do naht ivin get one feesh out of pond'. Is very true, I sink."

I nodded, smiled and told her I would leave her to it. I went out without having the faintest idea how I was going to kill time, but feeling like I wouldn't mind surprising myself.

Striking out across the six-way junction to the side directly opposite my flat, I went between the big, green afro tree and the church. It still is a church. I checked. Behind the church I took a right down a narrow, gentrified street, noticing as I pottered along that every single car parked on it was something a complete wanker would drive.

One house on that street had a portable chemical toilet squeezed into its almost non-existent front yard. For reasons I can't really explain, I stopped and opened the door. I didn't poke my head in or look into the toilet itself. I just opened the door, stood there for a second or two then, once I was satisfied that there were no surprises inside, I closed the door and continued on my way. I was thinking to myself at the time, "I hope the slightly surprising portable toilet doesn't end up being the highlight of this little jaunt."

Further along, the cars got a bit less wankerish, and fewer of the houses had pretentious little pillars either side of their front doors. As I was passing a side street branching off to the left, I noticed a bric-a-brac shop a few doors down. I didn't know we had a bric-a-brac shop in our neighbourhood. I suppose I've probably never been down that particular way before. I actually didn't think we had bric-a-brac shops anywhere any more. I became suddenly fascinated by bric-a-brac, and felt compelled to pay the shop a visit. Before going inside, I checked my wallet. I had cash. Quite a lot of cash. As I pushed the rather sticky door open, I was smirking to myself at the thought of going on a wild spending spree in here.

By the way, if you're wondering if the door was sticky in that it stuck a bit when I pushed it open, or if the surface of the door handle was sticky with some kind of mysterious substance, then I can tell you it was very much both.

Man, there was some crap in that shop. It was wonderful. The first thing that caught my eye was a tatty basket full of old pin badges, some of which were dangerously rusty. I must've spent at least 20 minutes sifting through them. I found three that I decided to buy. One was a Dennis The Menace one that seemed to be some sort of tie-in with a long-forgotten shoe brand, another had GEORGE AT ASDA written on it, and the final selection was adorned with a picture of Sting. I think it's Sting. This one had clearly gotten really wet some time in its myriad past. It was extremely rusty and the print was all faded and smudged.

Next I found something truly incredible. A genuinely marvelous find. I honestly couldn't believe my eyes, and am still finding it hard to grasp that I now own such a treasure. I know you think I'm being sarcastic, but you'll see.

I am now the proud owner of a 1984, officially licensed A-Team electric train set.

Seriously, it's a toy train that's designed to look like the A-Team van. That's the best thing about it. The second best thing about it is the artwork on the box. The actual contents of the box are admittedly a bit of an anti-climax after the all-action paramilitary mayhem implied by that box art. Even if there weren't quite as many missing or broken bits, I'm not sure it would really deliver on its promise. The ludicrously old man in the shop told me before I handed over my seven pounds that he had checked that it works, but that the power supply was American and that I'd have to buy a compatible UK one somewhere else. I realised that this could end up being a quite a challenge or, perhaps more likely, an enormous frustration.

But that box art...

I spent 10p each on the badges, bringing my total bill to a staggering £7.30. I'll admit that spending that much on the badges was extravagant, but seven quid for this train set is bargain, I swear. I looked it up on e-bay when I got home (and after I explained to Julia why I had just bought an old, broken toy), and they go for up to $500! They do if they're complete and in mint condition anyway. I mean, I'm not planning on selling it, but I may have to add it to my will. I'm definitely not selling it. I'm going to get a power supply for it tomorrow, and then I'm going to set it up, discover it doesn't actually work, and have a little cry. You've got to have goals.