recording (off the TV) of Fraggle Rock, his favourite programme. I can hear him singing along to the theme tune, bless him. Damn him.
Dance your cares away!
Worry’s for another day –
Let the music play,
Down at Fraggle Rock!
Again it plays, and again and again and again. Can he have made himself two separate recordings so he doesn’t have to wait to rewind? Has he even got two functional tape recorders? Does he possess the technological know-how for such pointless shenanigans?
I try the back gate for a second time. I return to the front door and smack it into Rogue. Thud.
We’re Gobo, Mokey, Wembley, Boober, Red!
I return to the gate. I’ve climbed over it before, but only under extreme duress. There’s very little purchase for hand or foot. After scrabbling around for a while I have the brilliant idea of fetching my bike, leaning it up against the gate and using it (the pedal, then the seat) as a kind of portable stepladder.
Everything is proceeding apace. The bike is carefully positioned – a brick wedged under the front wheel, the back wheel pushed against the wall of the house. I climb up. It’s a little unstable (a little ungainly, come to that) but everything’s going perfectly to plan, until …
It’s difficult to describe what happens next. I am almost half-straddling the gate – climbing over boldly, assuredly, very confident – when something catches at my waist, I fall forward, inadvertently – violently – kick out both my feet, and the bike tips sideways, crashing on to the gravel path. I am left hanging over the gate, bent at the hip, a fleshy, top-heavy U-bend, a human peg. To fall back would be difficult – even dangerous (the bike is just below. I’d hate to land on the spokes and potentially injure my foot, my ankle, my leg). I can only move forward. It’s just … uh … a question of … of using my hands to … to … And then I find that I’m … that I’m … that somehow I’ve become … no! I’m stuck! The piece of cord in my old jeans (they’re drawstring, tautened at the waist with a gentle bow) has somehow become hooked over an irregular piece of … a little wooden chip, a knot. And so I’m … I’m utterly, irrevocably, undisputedly stuck! I simply can’t …
I struggle. I struggle for what feels like an age to get my hand under my … to loosen the … but it’s too taut. In fact it’s … it’s almost cutting into me. And it’s hard to breathe with all this weight – my weight – on my gut. So I hang forward, to rest, to inhale, but then – once rested – I find it almost impossible to straighten back up. All the strength has leaked out of me.
I am stuck! Bottom in the air. Legs kicking. Wheezing. Groaning. I am stuck! I am stuck!
The vestiges of my womanly pride restrain me from calling out for help for a full five minutes. Who will come, anyway? It’s mid-afternoon on a quiet, unmade road. But after five – or ten – or seven (time loses all significance under such circumstances) minutes, I begin to yell.
At first an informal, undemanding, ‘Hello?’
Hello? Hello? Anyone? Hello? Hello?
Eventually a less formal, more desperate, ‘Help!’
Help! Help! Help me! Hello? Help! I’m stuck! Is there anyone there? Hello? Hello?
HELLO? HELLO? HELLO?
Oh my bladder, my poor bladder with the gate cutting into it! The chafing. The mortification! The redness of face. The nausea. Hands scrabbling. Feet kicking.
Aaaargh!
I am wailing. I can hear myself. A little, poignant wail. How long has it been now? The wail appears to be coming from the other side of the gate. Although my head is here. And my mouth. How odd! Could it be the cat mewing?
In my mind I am singing that silly song by Bananarama. The chorus goes ‘Robert De Niro’s waiting, talking Italian – talking Ital-i-an. Robert De Niro’s waiting, talk-king It-al-lian!’
I hang in silence for a while, bemused. Singing in my head. I yell for help only every minute or so to preserve my voice for the long haul.
Help!
Help!
Help!
I might be here all afternoon.
In fact I must’ve yelled this strange word (help – such a strange word! And the more I yell it, the stranger it seems; the hoarser, the darker, the more absurd and despairing) several hundred times when … now this is odd (because my head is hung forward – the blood pounding in my ears, I am almost faint – almost fainting) … I hear sudden footsteps on the gravel and something that seems like a human voice but all muffled and jumbled: like Aow-aow-aow-aow wah!
So curious!
Then comes a powerful smell of clementines (I’m not making this up!). An attempt to open the gate. A tentative yank on my foot, a hand on my bottom …
Oi!
And then, pow!
The bow on my trousers is untied (how’d he/she/it do that?) and before I know better (or am able to ready/steady/adjust myself) I’m tumbling forward over the gate and landing – Crump! (trouserless!) – on my hand/elbow/face/head/back ow! on the gravel ow! path ow! to the other side.
I lie for a few seconds, breathless and winded.
Aow-aow aow-aow? the strange voice asks, evidently concerned, trying the gate again.
I slowly sit up. Anything broken? Not sure. What I do know is that several pieces of gravel are embedded in my forehead. My legs feel okay … and … oooh … my spine … but my … ow! … my right thumb is hanging loose.
I’ve dislocated it! I’ve dislocated my thumb! Just look at that! How perfectly ghastly!
‘Oy vey, bubbellah! Ve Gates? Vat in God’s good name are you doing vith yourself down zere?’
Shimmy appears at the back door with his typical, slapstick timing.
‘I’ve dislocated my thumb, Tatteh!’ I wail, holding it out to him.
‘Zat’ll have to wait, Nebekh!’ Shimmy interrupts. ‘We got us bigger fish to fry here. Look at your poor dad! I’m plotzing! Zat damn dog has had hisself another heart attack! Za putz is blocking the front door! I called you a cab already. You gotta take him to the vet’s.’
As Shimmy is speaking I hear footsteps rapidly retreating in the gravel on the other side of the gate. I try to stand up, but it takes me slightly longer to find my feet than I’d anticipated.
‘Call the vet out, Tatteh!’ I’m grumbling. ‘How’re we meant to lift him into a cab? He’s huge. I’ve dislocated my thumb! Look! I’ve got bits of gravel stuck in my forehead!’
‘You crazy?!’ Shimmy exclaims. ‘You know how much zey charge to call
