MEGAN OF THE DELIGHTFUL ARSE

megan

Hanging atop the frigid moorlands even the storm clouds huddle for dear life. Rooted below a tired old toff sits before a blazing log fire within his ramshackle manor house, granite firm within an acreage erstwhile set to lawn, hedgerow and glorious fountains yet these days no more than a frightful brier permeated wasteland.

As the reticent nightfall, its thunder already stolen by lugubrious daytime agony descends the curmudgeonly, infirm codger reaches the end of his deliberations; comes at long last to a conclusion.

“Girl, yes you whatever your name is draw me a hot tub that I may soak away my sorrows; that I may ease the pain in these old joints of mine.”

“Certainly Sir…by the way and for the umpteenth time my name is Megan and I’ve been your house servant these past dozen years…ever since I left school!”

“Oh, sorry I forgot…always forgetting names and faces…curse of time you know. By the way did I ever tell you that – unlike some other lucky blighters – I’ve never had employment that attracted these gal groupies I’ve read about? I’d have liked that I think…extracurricular relations with gals of easy virtue…certainly better than that old harridan who was glued to me for the best years of my life. Still I’ll never know now will I…is my bath ready yet.”

“Very nearly Sir, would you care for assistance undressing and getting in? By the way you made mention of those bad girls who chase men for their money over breakfast and at lunch and yesterday and the day before.”

“Did I? Christ I must be losing my marbles.”

“Anyway it doesn’t matter does it…there that’s you ready…I’ll hold your arm as you step in but be careful you don’t slip when sitting down.”

“Good God woman it’s piping hot are you trying to see me off?”

“Not at all Sir…look I’ll add cold water from the bucket…that’s it, it should be perfect now.”

“That’s better…yes that’s much better.”

“Before I set to preparing your dinner is there anything you want…and I don’t mean, ‘Will you help me find the soap’ like last time when the soap wasn’t even lost!”

“Would I lie to you Megan…of course it was misplaced!  Whatever, fetch me a glass of Lillet Rouge and don’t forget my twist of orange…oh and a pen and pad of paper for I am minded to pen a note…and the razor…think I’ll shave while I’m at it.”

“There Sir that’s your aperitif, razor…your pen and paper. Just ring the bell should you need me or want to alight the bath…I’ll make sure I have warmed towels at the ready.”  

MY LAST LETTER!

My sons and daughters, friends alive and others of my pedigree understand that the frenzied hounds of time have been let loose and are, even as I write and putting it colloquially ‘on my case’. After much deliberation over many a long winter’s night I have come to the decision that I shall not be prey to a pack of beasts; that they shall never get the satisfaction of even snapping at my ankles. In short I shall not be ‘sticking around’.

That the emergency services ,and I suspect the coroner’s task, be made easy it is in just a moment, suitably naked and ensconced within my bathtub that I shall do the deed the god-fearing amongst you may say is evil, namely commit a hara-kiri of sorts.

That you are, one and all amply provided for in my Last Will and Testament a given, yet exploiting the warmth and relaxation of this my final soak you will understand that the thought of further memory loss eventually rendering me a glorified cabbage and when the times comes that even my walking stick becomes of no use to me when bedridden I have little choice but to do the deed…each to his own I say!

Yet prior to taking the cut throat to my wrist thus allowing my blood to flow fascinatingly unchecked I make one last and very important request of the lot of you. You see just this very day I forgot yet again the name of my lovely young maid Megan – she who attends to my every need (save one!). The very sight of this girl who has cared for me for the duration of my dotage and who makes me wish I could turn back time; be young once more tells me I owe her for the strife this miserable old sod has brought upon her from time to time. Never once has this adorable filly complained or shirked her duties. You will all know that I am a man who pays his debts and as such I instruct each and everyone one of you to deliver up 10% of your respective inheritance to her sweet Megan of the delightful arse – rest assured I shall haunt you to your dying days if you do not!

Farewell, au revoir.

Albert

PS: Megan as I slip this mortal coil I picture you the day we picnicked on the beach just last summer, you in your bathing suit, me struggling for comfort within that wretched deck chair. You were a vision then (are a vision still) and I can think of no canvass to take with me upon this, my final journey. I just wanted you to know that my dear!

Concerned that the master of the house might have been marinating too long Megan goes up to the bathroom to check upon him. Plainly taken aback she feels for a pulse…there is none…he is no more. That the constabulary should be telephoned as a matter of urgency she is in no doubt yet stepping away from the tub she spots the note Albert had written. Being a bright girl she leaves it upon the tiles where it is in case it is required as evidence at any inquest but not before reading the same.

It is with chuckles and tears that she checks out her soon to become much fabled posterior in the big bathroom mirror, “Lovely arse indeed.”

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31 thoughts on “MEGAN OF THE DELIGHTFUL ARSE

      • Perky butts sound (is that the right word?) fine by me then…mind the last time I squatted I got evicted pretty sharp…changing the subject as ever I purchased a new car from a bloke who looked 12 years old today and…this is the important bit…could hear, and the car has a heated steering wheel…why?

      • A heated steering wheel…hmmm….well oft I have suffered frozen fingers and even a case of chill blains so I have to say I like it! Mine has heated seats but I don’t know how to work them.

      • Perky Butts – a new character for a skit? As to the heated steering wheel (and the small child who sold me the car said seats as well) I hadn’t thought of how to work them…probably I never will!

      • I think Perky Butts should be the next Bond girl…I’ve been working on ideas whilst walking about the town but have too many already although I did lose a few to the ether walking home!

  1. You started on a high with that title – love it! – and never faltered after that.
    i wish all reads were as enjoyable and as well-written as this.
    Best to you, Mike

    john

    • Thank you once more – I followed your writing rules you outlined in a recent post and just let the tale go wherever it wanted! I do that generally although sometimes working around a template but not so with this…load of old toot really yet enjoyable to pen with what was a very empty head starting out!

  2. Found this so sad – until feelings for Megan mixed in- hilarity steps in. Caretakers, little do they know, add colour and some daydreaming, don’t they?
    I really liked the ending!!!!

  3. Oh, how I wish I could have had an old codger with one foot in the grave, to nurse! Unfortunately not one bit of me has known what perky means for several sad years now and therefore I do not have the required bait in hand. This was kind of sad and sweet and I did wipe a tear for the old boy

    • Perky! You see I think that must have evolved from ‘perking’ – as in ‘perking one up’ i.e. making one feel better. So in terms of Marissa’s perky butt remark I’m thinking here the blond one out of Abba donkey’s years back!

      • Aaaargghh! You said Abba! Please don’t ever say Abba again. There are few ‘band’ names (they should never have even been called a band!) to which I have such a violent reaction and it immediately triggers my brain into torturing me with “Money,Money,Money” for at least 8 days, driving me to contemplate suicide in order to make it go away!

      • The chap working for us who is putting new walls up (I think that’s what he’s doing…Shirley’s in charge) is constantly whistling (interspersed with the occasional vocal) ‘My Old Man’s a Dustman’. The net result is that it is now in my head and now when at last I get the chance to finish off a skit I am writing I can’t think of a thing save for that bloody song!

      • What usually saves me from such episodes is ‘So long Marianne, its time that we began….’

    • I enjoyed writing this one as I let the story go where the fancy took it…note to self…do this more often. By the way we have just returned from a long day driving but worth it as we met little Jackson, my son Milo’s first nipper. A handsome little chap and Shirl will no doubt post a few snaps of him on Facebook…I have vetoed some as I look so very, very old…then again I am 108!

      • Well, for being 108, you’re still quite dashing! I can’t wait to see the photos. How exciting! I’m sure he’s adorable. Wasn’t he born around Christmas?

      • The little bloke – Jackson by name – is 4 months old now. Some of the shots using my phone were out of focus so we will flit through them again this morning and see what we’ve got

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