The Exacerbationist

The Exacerbationist: do you like that? I made it up. I mean, there has to be a singular word to describe someone for whom Fate lurks around every unexpected corner waiting to give a swift kick up the ass. Enter your author, looking warily behind him. And I promise, all that follows is the unadulterated truth, blow by blow, as it happened. Forget poetic licence - you couldn’t make it up!

There is a small town in the south west of the UK that was more California than California is now, even before the Summer of Love. Still is. It’s known as the unofficial capital of the alternative lifestyle in the country - and there are a couple of poorer contenders for that title. At this particular point in time you almost wafted up the High Street on the dissipating fumes of illicit cigarettes. A new coffee bar had just opened at the top of the town, which my wife and I had decided to patronise. Just for coffee, although it was famed for its vegetarian meals and its cakes: the latter arrayed behind a glass topped counter in all their creamy magnificence.

But, we were only there for coffee. Conversation of the sub-culture circulated amongst the kaftan-clad clientele as I sauntered up to the counter to order. It all sounded too hip to be true. And it was contagious, so the saunter quickly turned to a ‘flollop’ as I hung loose - much too loose - and the fingers started flipping to the unheard beat.

Ordered, the coffee came in huge stoneware mugs - a real thirst gobbler of a drink - and I proffered the money with hands that were so laid back as to be virtually comatose, which the server (a pretty little elfin girl but another of Fate’s children) took with hands like a drunken Irish navvy. The cash, deciding to have nothing to do with either of these witless appendages, flew into the air to land, with a series of delicate little ‘plops’, right in the middle of the lushest, creamiest cream cake behind the counter. We both looked on, dumbfounded, as the coins slowly sank. She flashed a sickly smile and quickly whipped the cake away to excavate the cash and give a practised lathering of another layer whilst I waited wishing for the ground to open beneath me.

She brought the cake back, resplendent, put it back in its place and handed over the change but, wise now to the vagaries of the vibes going down, she gave a knowing smile and placed it in a glass dish on the top of the counter which I reached out to claim. But my own fingers were now so hip as to be practically comatose, nudged the dish - which slowly slid along the counter to tip off - and fall directly on the newly refurbished cake, where it depth charged this time, spreading cream in all directions.

Throwing me a tight little smile this time that barely concealed her utter loathing and hatred, my cream adorned pixie whipped the cake away for repair again - this time a major scaffolding job - and I eventually claimed my change.

I put it in the Ethiopian Famine Relief collecting box. I thought it best.,.

So far, so embarrassing. I could go on, and I will, but one event that I have dined out on for many years amongst my immediate circle involves mechanics. Now, I am many things, one of which is not a mechanic but this particular day I was late for work. A heavy night meant that I had overslept and there was some pressing preparation work that needed to be done for a meeting. As chance had it, the car was in for servicing at the time, so I decided to put the old bicycle into service. It’s all downhill to the office from where I live, so a quick spin of the wheels should see me good.

Right! The cycle lives in a shed at the top of the garden, which is terraced, and hadn’t been used for a while, so the tyres were flat, obviously, soon rectified once I had found the pump. Have you tried looking for a bicycle pump in a jumbled shed, when you’re in a hurry, when it’s barely light? Anyway, tyres eventually inflated, I wheeled the cycle down the lawn, whereupon the chain fell off with a spiteful clunk. Now it so happens that the chain on this particular machine is one of those convoluted things that doubles back on itself and seems to display no relationship to the logical laws of physics. And, as I said, I am no mechanic but, I surprised myself at the speed with which I solved the problem and the wheel revolved like a good ‘un. All good. I hoiked the bike down to the road, down the steps leading up to the garden hemmed in on all sides by plants and bushes, and mounted the cycle for a swift ride to the office.

And I got a good distance freewheeling until I had to change gears whereupon everything stopped. Everything but the rider, that is, who continued in motion, sliding across the cross bar until nether regions collided with the handlebars, and the forward momentum tipped him over the machine to become a twisted wreck of cursing, groaning, humanity and immobile, creaking, machinery.

The chain had jammed. Not only had it jammed, it had twisted the sprocket thing that held it into a shape resembling a deformed banana, so that bike was going nowhere any time soon,

Gibbering slightly, I threw the machine over my shoulder and limped back uphill to my house, pausing to negotiate the steps, and staggered my way up until everything stopped again. The bike was irretrievably caught up in the overhanging bushes, specifically a trailing clematis, which had entwined its tendrils around the machine. I couldn’t go forward, I couldn’t go back, I couldn’t turn around, I was stuck. Until, with an effort possessed only by a superhuman or someone just verging on insanity, I broke free, completely uprooting the clematis bush - and once more falling on my face on top of the bike

I took a moment to reflect, essaying a few well chosen words, scrambled to my feet, bent down to retrieve the bike - and was rewarded with a sound like tearing calico as the seat of my trousers gave way.

By now, the world had turned red. I threw open the shed door, threw the bike inside, and threw a well deserved punch at the saddle bag. Whereupon there was a merry tinkle as my thermos flask, which had so far survived the events of the morning, shattered.

I think I said a few more words then, before I grabbed the flask and stomped off down the lawn, trailing coffee. Did I mention that it had been teeming down with rain the previous night and the lawn was a mud bath? I don’t think I did. Anyway, as might be expected, my feet shot from under me and deposited me, seat down, in the mud and, there being no seat in the trousers at the time, it was a very fitting finale.

I was late for work that day. “Don’t ask!” were the first words I said when I did eventually get in. Wisely, they didn’t.