We’re always the heroine of our own stories. (Martin)
I, Gertie, have now assumed the authorship and management of this story about my life. I didn’t appreciate or like how that nincompoop storyteller was telling it. Some of her descriptions, particularly about me, were unimaginably inaccurate. Just goes to prove that what the nuns, God rest their despotic souls, always said is true — if you want it done right, do it yourself.
Picking up where the story left off, after I gathered Neville off the floor and brushed the old fart off, I went about setting the patio of my beloved NoName Cafe to rights, and coddled and reassured Cuddles until he was at least mollified enough to leave off shrieking those horrendous curses. A second cup of tea with Neville soothed our slightly jangled nerves as we sorted out possibilities and probabilities.
We had ended our relationship with The Company several years ago, and had been enjoying an idyllic retired life. (If we chafed at the slight boredom and inactivity, we each kept it to ourselves.) Was this attack on us an old vendetta? Revenge? Settling an old score?
Or, as we finally settled upon as the most likely possibility, was this an idiotic attempt on The Company’s part to lure us back to work? Wily, astute, and occasionally outrageous operators that we had been, I am sure we have been missed in the field. They don’t make ’em like Gertie and Neville anymore.
We set about making our plans based on this assumption: most of those in charge of The Company are halfwitted and brainless, and we went from there. Deciding we would set about implementing our plans the next morning, we retired for a rest before making preparations for the evening meal, which was to be one of our specialities, Keftedes. Plus I was going to dance, and I needed to rest and refresh myself.
And while I did not rave on about it to Neville, I also had a personal score to settle, and settle I would: in that ridiculous brouhaha, my rare and precious Platanthera azorica had been badly damaged and even broken. Not that money matters with such a thing of beauty, but that plant was worth maybe as much as ten thousand American dollars, and like they always say, money won’t bring you happiness, but at least you can be miserable in comfort. Someone was gonna pay.
(to be continued)