Chandler's Itch
by Dan Gee
“Sod it!
I’ll go out and buy a pie” said
Chandler who put his hand on his knees and shot
up. As he did so he strained his back slightly;
like an old man who gets up to shout at the
Television after he hears someone on countdown
splitting carelessly their infinitives. After a
few Ibuprofen tablets, washed down with some
Hobgoblin beer, Chandler put on his anorak which
had served him well since the 80s, locked the
door and walked to the shops, leaving his child
behind.
The road he
skipped down was tattooed in chalk marks,
presumably from some children playing around
earlier in the day. A smile stretched across his
lips. However this moment of happiness was rather
short lived, as whilst in this happy gaze he
forgot to look down on the street notorious for
surprises and after hearing a lovely squelch,
trod in a rather sizeable piece of dog faeces.
Angered and frustrated he looked back at his
house, but realising he wanted a pie for
nutrition before work; he wiped it on
someone’s garden and walked on.
Eventually,
after what seemed like ten minutes but was in
fact five (ish) Chandler arrived at Aldi and
started to peruse the pie section. Who would have
thought it, a whole sector in a supermarket
completely dedicated to selling pies? Obviously
the pies on offer were not that of an amazing
quality, but still what was fit enough for a
random hobo was fit enough for the likes of
Chandler. Grabbing a rather nice, and still warm,
apple pie, he made his way to the counter.
Passing the toy section on the way Chandler
smiled again and even chuckled to himself, making
the thick magnifying glass like spectacles that
were perched upon his carrot like nose bob up and
down. Coming to the counter he rearranged his
pants slightly and then gave the young lad at the
till a wry grin. Then he left the shop.
Over the road
he saw a policeman donning one of those
“Cold tit” helmets that could easily
double up a bucket, so decided that he would
lurch outside the shop and look like a miscreant
who deserves an ASBO. With the bucket balancing
plod well out of sight, Chandler felt safe, so
once again, rearranging his pants more and more
frantically he began the return leg of his pie
based journey.
The itch
downstairs refused to cease and it became harder
and harder to carry on unnoticed. So, Chandler
quickened the pace which although blurred peoples
vision from what could potentially be an
embarrassing thing downstairs, made him look like
someone had shoved a rocket up his bottom and
replaced his human legs with those of a crab.
Skittering along unnaturally a few children on
their way home from school giggled, but Chandler
just smirked and for what must have been the
ninetieth time, rearranged his downstairs closet.
Relieved that
he had made it home, he slapped the pie on the
table. After taking a sausage out of the closet
he began to do the rather odd thing of dipping it
in and out of the pie. The lips of the pastry got
looser and looser with each thrust of the sausage
till eventually the juice of the pie oozed out
uncontrollably. Then, Chandler realised that he
had better check on his child so ran upstairs,
pulling up his trousers which seemingly fell
after each step. Looking into the room where his
child sat, still and quiet, he smiled.
Later on
Chandler finished his pie; the sausage was back
in the closet.
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