He does so much nit-picking he has been diagnosed with floccillation of the brain.
Pat and Mike strode in step down the cobbled lanes of the hamlet.
“Why does it have to be like it is?” Pat mused out loud. “Garbage on the streets. Garbage on the air waves. Garbage in outer space. Garbage in everybody’s head.”
“And only man is vile,” said Mike.
“I’ve always liked only wine, women, music, and books, myself,” admitted Pat.
“Join the club,” was Mike’s answer. “What else is there, except work, and that’s maybe okay, if you’re lucky.”
“Enough to pay for the wine and books. Any more is a waste, like D-cup tits.”
“A waist, and D-cups. Nothings wrong with that.”
“Me, I take a practical view toward money. When light fixtures for the garden cost between five and twenty-five thousand pesetas, I confiscate some of Stephanie’s flowerpots.”
“You put the electric wire through the hole?”
“Right. A perfect fit.”
“And you put the fixture inside the flowerpot, with the bulb in it?”
“Right.”
“What happens if it rains? Won’t the water go in where the wire went in?”
Pat gave him a sly look. “I melted some candle wax around the hole.”
Mike thought about how hot the pot might get. Would it be enough to melt the wax? He wasn’t sure. The terra-cotta would absorb a lot of heat, especially if it was raining.
Pat looked at him, as if he could hear him thinking.
“If the wax melts, I’ll put some epoxy.”
Mike was thinking that over, when Piano, Peter’s collie appeared on the path in front of them.
This excerpt is from a collection of files Patrick called Scattered Notes.odt dated from 2014 to 2016. I’ll continue to add other segments as time allows.
Patrick Meadows 1934 – 2017.