that’s enough flippancy about their tag from you.
About their what, now? he says.
Years from now, I say, you and the Inverness Constabulary will be nothing but a list of dry dusty names locked in an old computer memory stick. But the message girls, the message boys. They’ll be legend.
Uh huh, he says. Well, if you’d like to hang up your phone now, Ms Gunn, I’ll have your wee sister call you back in a jiffy.
(I consider making a formal complaint, while I wait for the phone to go. I am the only person permitted to make fun of my sister.)
Where’ve you been? she says when I answer.
Anthea, do you really think you’ll change the world a single jot by calling yourself by a funny name and doing what you’ve been doing? You really think you’ll make a single bit of difference to all the unfair things and all the suffering and all the injustice and all the hardship with a few words?
Yes, she says.
Okay. Good, I say.
Good? she says. Aren’t you angry? Aren’t you really furious with me?
No, I say.
No? she says. Are you lying?
But I think you’re going to have to get a bit better at dodging the police, I say.
Yeah, she says. Well. We’re working on it.
You and the girl with the little wings coming out of her heels, I say.
Are you being rude about Robin? she says. Because if you are, I’ll make fun of your motorbike again.
Ha ha, I say. You can borrow one of my crash helmets if you want. But you might not want to, since there’s no wings on it like there are on Robin’s helmet.
Eh? she says.
It’s a reference, I say. To a source.
Eh? she says.
Don’t say eh, say pardon or excuse me. I mean like Mercury.
Like what? she says.
Mercury, I say. You know. Original message boy. Wings on his heels. Wait a minute, I’ll go downstairs and get my Dictionary of Mythical –
No, no, Midge, don’t go anywhere. Just listen, she says. I’ve not got long on this phone. I can’t ask Dad. There’s no one Robin can ask. Just help us out this once. Please. I won’t ask again.
I know. You must be desperate to get out of that kilt, I say and I crack up laughing again.
Well, when you stop finding yourself so hilarious, she says, actually, if you could bring me a change of clothes that’d be great.
But you’ve been okay, you’re both okay up there? I say.
We’re good. But if you could, like I say, just, eh, quite urgently, justify half an hour’s absence to Dominorm or whoever, and disengage yourself from the Pure empire long enough to come and bail us out. I’ll pay you back. I promise.
You’ll need to, I say. I’m unemployed now.
Eh? she says.
I’m disengaged, I say. I’m no longer Pure.
No! she says. What happened? What’s wrong?
Nothing and everything is what happened, I say. And at Pure, everything’s wrong. Everything in the world. But you know this already.
Seriously? she says.
Honest to goodness, I say.
Wow, she says. When did it happen?
What? I say.
The miracle. The celestial exchange of my sister for you, whoever you are.
A glass of water given in kindness, that’s what did it, I say.
Eh? she says.
Stop saying eh, I say. Anyway I thought we’d saunter on up in a wee while –
Eh, can I just stress the word urgent? she says.
Though I thought I might drive out to a garden centre first and buy some seeds and bulbs –
Urgent urgent urgent urgent, she says.
And then I thought I might spend the rest of the afternoon and early evening down on the river bank –
URGENT, she yells down the phone.
– planting a good slogan or two that’ll appear mysteriously in the grass of it next spring. RAIN BELONGS TO EVERYONE. Or THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A SECOND SEX. Or PURE DEAD = BRILLIANT. Something like that.
Oh. That’s such a good idea, she says. Planting in the riverbank. That’s such a fantastic idea.
Also, you’re being too longwinded, I say. All the long sentences. It needs to be simpler. You need sloganeering help. You definitely need some creative help –
Does
About their what, now? he says.
Years from now, I say, you and the Inverness Constabulary will be nothing but a list of dry dusty names locked in an old computer memory stick. But the message girls, the message boys. They’ll be legend.
Uh huh, he says. Well, if you’d like to hang up your phone now, Ms Gunn, I’ll have your wee sister call you back in a jiffy.
(I consider making a formal complaint, while I wait for the phone to go. I am the only person permitted to make fun of my sister.)
Where’ve you been? she says when I answer.
Anthea, do you really think you’ll change the world a single jot by calling yourself by a funny name and doing what you’ve been doing? You really think you’ll make a single bit of difference to all the unfair things and all the suffering and all the injustice and all the hardship with a few words?
Yes, she says.
Okay. Good, I say.
Good? she says. Aren’t you angry? Aren’t you really furious with me?
No, I say.
No? she says. Are you lying?
But I think you’re going to have to get a bit better at dodging the police, I say.
Yeah, she says. Well. We’re working on it.
You and the girl with the little wings coming out of her heels, I say.
Are you being rude about Robin? she says. Because if you are, I’ll make fun of your motorbike again.
Ha ha, I say. You can borrow one of my crash helmets if you want. But you might not want to, since there’s no wings on it like there are on Robin’s helmet.
Eh? she says.
It’s a reference, I say. To a source.
Eh? she says.
Don’t say eh, say pardon or excuse me. I mean like Mercury.
Like what? she says.
Mercury, I say. You know. Original message boy. Wings on his heels. Wait a minute, I’ll go downstairs and get my Dictionary of Mythical –
No, no, Midge, don’t go anywhere. Just listen, she says. I’ve not got long on this phone. I can’t ask Dad. There’s no one Robin can ask. Just help us out this once. Please. I won’t ask again.
I know. You must be desperate to get out of that kilt, I say and I crack up laughing again.
Well, when you stop finding yourself so hilarious, she says, actually, if you could bring me a change of clothes that’d be great.
But you’ve been okay, you’re both okay up there? I say.
We’re good. But if you could, like I say, just, eh, quite urgently, justify half an hour’s absence to Dominorm or whoever, and disengage yourself from the Pure empire long enough to come and bail us out. I’ll pay you back. I promise.
You’ll need to, I say. I’m unemployed now.
Eh? she says.
I’m disengaged, I say. I’m no longer Pure.
No! she says. What happened? What’s wrong?
Nothing and everything is what happened, I say. And at Pure, everything’s wrong. Everything in the world. But you know this already.
Seriously? she says.
Honest to goodness, I say.
Wow, she says. When did it happen?
What? I say.
The miracle. The celestial exchange of my sister for you, whoever you are.
A glass of water given in kindness, that’s what did it, I say.
Eh? she says.
Stop saying eh, I say. Anyway I thought we’d saunter on up in a wee while –
Eh, can I just stress the word urgent? she says.
Though I thought I might drive out to a garden centre first and buy some seeds and bulbs –
Urgent urgent urgent urgent, she says.
And then I thought I might spend the rest of the afternoon and early evening down on the river bank –
URGENT, she yells down the phone.
– planting a good slogan or two that’ll appear mysteriously in the grass of it next spring. RAIN BELONGS TO EVERYONE. Or THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS A SECOND SEX. Or PURE DEAD = BRILLIANT. Something like that.
Oh. That’s such a good idea, she says. Planting in the riverbank. That’s such a fantastic idea.
Also, you’re being too longwinded, I say. All the long sentences. It needs to be simpler. You need sloganeering help. You definitely need some creative help –
Does
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