'Brothir, seyede sir Launcelot, wyte you well I am full loth to departe out of thys reyllme, but that the Quene hath defended me so hyghly that mesemmeth she wyll nevir be my gode ladye as she hath beene.' - Malory, Morte d'Arthur
'Have you had her round your gaff yet? No? Well, don't.'
Selwyn's bedsit was a notorious eyesore and health hazard, even by the undemanding standards of the after-hours crew from the Swan. But located equidistant as it was between the New Inns and the High Street it made a convenient stop-off point for a pick me up between venues, and we'd all been there at some time. It did seem a trifle churlish for Tony to be publicly denigrating Selwyn's shortcomings as a house keeper, but Tone was in Tough Love mode and Selwyn had a new bird.
'Cast your mind forward eighteen months.' Tone continued as Selwyn shuffled his feet under the table and looked imploringly at his empty pint pot. 'You and her have signed the lease on a new house; Pickford's have just unloaded all her furniture, ornaments and belongings and you've upended your two binbags full of crap and plugged your Xbox in, and now she's off for another two months to the Afghan.'
Selwyn's new bird was a nurse, and not just a nurse: a senior staff nurse. And not just a senior staff nurse, she was also a volunteer for an international medical charity that despatched nurses to hotspots around the globe. Iran, Rwanda, Liberia and Afghanistan had all benefitted from the ministrations of this angel, and we could only assume that in Selwyn she saw a humanitarian disaster of similar proportions.
'So tell me, Sel, how do you intend to greet her on her return from Afghanistan's searing plains? A kebab and a two month pile of dirty laundry? "You just enjoy your dinner, love. You can start on all that later."' Tone jerked his thumb over his shoulder at an imaginary tottering pile of unwashed crocks and soiled underwear. He paused. 'Answer to a maiden's prayer, isn't it?'
Since Sel's old mum had died, Sel had lived a dismal existance of shared houses, takeaways and trips to the last surviving launderette. This new bird offered, perhaps, a reprieve from infinite squalor in a little room and an alternative to a lonely dusty death.
'You gotta learn to clean, boy. Learn to cook.' Tone's own domestic habits were fastidious, his housekeeping precise and prompt. Orderly batchelorhood was his thing and his kitchen gleamed but nobody had ever seen him eat so much as a pub bap, much less whip up a three-course on the Aga a la Jamie Oliver. Emboldened by a night's recreational insomnia, I interjected.
'I'm talking about him, mate, not me.' Tone's eyes whipped round to mine. 'He's the one wants to shack up with a bird. He's the one living up to his arse in his own shite. He's the one needs someone took look after him in his twilight years. Not me, mate.'
We hadn't met her yet, although John Paul claimed to have once seen the happy couple crossing the road by the Yenton, and Sel had only told us the previous evening that they were thinking of moving in. We had been on the lash since yesterday but the subject had resurfaced more than once during the long night's journey into morning opening hours, and here we were back at our starting point.
I thought about getting another round in. Selwyn was humbly listening to Tone, whose jaws were starting to clench when not actively being used for speech; which latter state which was pertaining less and less as the morning wore on. Dave the Paperboy was still with us, but happily withdrawn and giggling to himself. I patted the hip pocket of my 501s to make sure the slim paper wrap was still in place, and headed towards the karzi. The new day beckoned bright with promise.
