Telling Old Tales

It has been a day for dentist so it means a raid on the archive.  This one, allegedly a bed time story, below comes from near three decades ago when International Banking was one of those mysteries that few discussed and fewer liked.

"Tracey’s father, Clark Gable Trotter, was conceived on the back row of the local Odeon Cinema during one of the more boring parts of "Gone With The Wind". 

He became fed up with his job as an accounts clerk at the Tiddledon Brewery, so he decided to do something about it. 

As the wearing of sheepskin jackets, tight jeans, and flowered shirts did not do much he decided to follow the example of The Beatles. Well, it was the 1970’s.

Unluckily he could not afford to go to India, so he bought a cheap day return to London and visited a mystic who had set up shop in Norbury and had advertised on Page 3 of The Sun newspaper to attract attention.

The Maharajah Olivetti Bangup was graciously moved to receive him and he was ushered into the scented presence with cries of joy in a foreign tongue. 

They sounded to Mr. Trotter, a little like “Eh up, ‘ere’s another punter, this one's a five quid job.”, but he put this down to his ignorance of Eastern languages.

He poured out his heart and his quest for rediscovery to Olivetti (call me Olly), who thought for what seemed like an age to Trotter, probably because two heavily made up females, redundant ballet dancers, were wandering about thumping tambourines close to his ears. 

Olly put up a hand, and the women fell to the floor.  Trotter tried to do the same, but his back had locked again as he was trying to sit in a squatting position.  Olly did not seem to mind.

“I give you therapy” chanted Olly, “From my readings of the great seer and thinker, Vindaloo Hot Madras.  Then you shall go, and the truth will be revealed.”

Olly began, “Look squire, your are over forty, fat, half bald, and knackered.  If you were a horse they would have shot you.”  Trotter marvelled at Olly’s grasp of English. 

Olly went on, “There’s no bloody chance of rediscovery, what’s done is done, like last years Derby.  If you are pissed off, then you start again.  And the way Tiddledon Ales Ltd. shares are going, you will have to any way.” 

Olly then waved, and the women, whose mysterious scent reminded Trotter vaguely of something called Gilbey’s ushered him out into the strange world of Norbury.

When Trotter returned home he learned that the Brewery had been taken over and closed, his wife had left him for the double glazing salesman to whose firm he owed several thousand pounds, taking the family bed, and the drains had collapsed. 

The salesman had left a copy of the Financial Times, it fell open at the jobs pages.  There seemed to be lots of opportunities in international banking.  This had always seemed to him to be a soft job, and the most interesting was at an address in Norbury. 

Trotter found the old pad of Basildon Bond paper, and began to write.

Now it's bed time."

But first, clean the teeth.