I was there, at the end of the world. It was quieter than I expected. I had thought long and hard about that eventuality and had convinced myself it would be fire and brimstone, death and destruction. But it all passed without much fan-fare. I awoke the morning after, rubbed the sleep from my eyes and, upon opening the curtains noticed a large rock, roughly the shape of Nottingham floating in the distance. It wasn’t until I went downstairs and hopped outside in my slippers, that I felt a warm breeze on my legs and realised something must be wrong. My plants appeared a little lifeless but alas, I couldn’t water them because the water from the garden tap ran red. I suppose the apocalypse must have rusted the pipes.
It was when I turned on the news and found out there was none, that I began to suspect something strange might have happened. I went back to my window and further inspected the rock with my binoculars that I used for watching the birds. It seemed the rock had strange protrusions, one might describe as buildings, hanging onto its side. This struck me as somewhat unusual, though I must admit to not being too alarmed just yet. Nottingham was a strange place after all and, who was I to judge.
No, it all seemed rather dull for an apocalypse, and so I went about my day, discovering to my glee that I had left water in the kettle, just enough for half a cup of tea. No, I dare say the day began rather ordinarily, much like any other day. Though, there was one thing that, in hindsight should have tickled my sense of urgency.
I went back to the window to enjoy my tea and watch the birds as I always do, when, spying through my binoculars I noticed a rather large, reddish bird swooping down at the houses across the way. It swooped and swept and dived and dunked below the trees. It must have kept hitting something, the poor thing, as each time it did a loud bang erupted from behind the fence. I had assumed this bird to be quite close to me, owing to how large it looked, until, on the upswing from its swoop, it happened to sail off up into the clouds with my neighbour between its toes. I dare say, it was unusual, but my neighbour had once showed me his exotic pets and so I assumed it must be from the Congo and thought little more off it.
The garden seemed rather quiet afterwards and so I endeavoured to do my chores for the day. I had a letter to take to the post office, and milk to get from the shops. With the warm breeze it was no weather for walking, and so I dusted off my old ford. It argued with me as usual, but eventually the engine started and I took off down the road until I was forced to make a sudden stop. Aghast I was, beside myself, positively bubbling with rage. So furious I was, that I scarcely even thought about it before I jumped out into the road and looked down into a giant, gaping chasm with lava bubbling deep in the earth’s crust. I was practically spitting feathers with the amount of council tax I pay.
My day didn’t improve much when I went to post my letter. I sauntered past the bakers which smelled of burnt bread, dawdled past the pharmacy which looked like a bomb had gone off, before trundling past the pet shop where a grotesque looking hound was staring at me through the window. Yet it was reaching the post office that flustered me no end. You see, I hurried up to the door, and pushed it as I do, only to slam my head into the glass when it did not budge. Much to my surprise, I noticed they had moved. It seemed rather rude to have done so with so little notice. Only two days prior had I come by and not one of the ladies had thought to mention it, nor had anyone posted a notice in the window. I resolved that I should complain as soon I got home, though, I suppose it was a little strange now that I think back. You see, they had moved that is certain, but they had moved about fifty foot into the air. I didn’t quite know what to make of it, and I couldn’t imagine how one was supposed to post a letter at such a great distance. However, my alarm was abated when I remembered a conversation I’d had with Doris behind the counter just a week earlier. In fact, when I remembered that, I felt rather silly for having been so easy to anger because, of course, It had to be the new service they had opened, the air-mail. I was calmed by the knowledge that my letter would reach the relatives in Australia in only two days and so it didn’t matter if I posted it tomorrow. With that, I walked around the falling bricks and, resolved to come back another day.
No, I dare say, nothing whatsoever struck as being odd. The sun was shining, the birds were screaming, and the pub was a ruckus with the usual patrons, who much like me, seemed to have seen nothing terribly strange about the day at all.
It was when I arrived home that something truly strange occurred, something I just couldn’t shake. There was a man stood at my door with a rather dark suit and strangely blank face, holding a black book in his hand. He appeared to be on fire and my first instinct was to send him away to book up his ideas, but I didn’t wish to offend the man’s disability, so instead I had to invite him in. He pushed this black book, which smelled of burnt toast, quite rudely, into my face with a feather in his hand and demanded I sign my name. But as he did my senses piqued and my bones quivered when I gazed upon the ash this dishevelled young man had trampled carelessly across my carpet.
I gave him what for, a piece of my mind. Never mind I sign your book, I told the man. How about this mess. I had never channelled so much fury since my youth, when I once got into a bar fight at the foot of Ben Nevis.
The man looked rather sheepish after that, and hurried to dust his footprints away, apologising profusely as he scurried about on the floor. Dare I say I felt a bit bad. After all, it wasn’t his fault he was burning. He singed a few holes in my carpet before I apologised for my outburst and endeavoured to offer him a cup of tea. The water poured red and I had to apologise again as I was being a rather poor host, but much to my surprise he fiddled with my tap and the water ran clear. That is when it hit me and I realised I had been a fool. So blinded I was by my own preconceptions, so filled with strange thoughts from my peculiar morning that it had never even crossed my mind that this man, fiery, dark and devilish could possibly, ever, be the plumber. Needless to say I was impressed by the service, especially since I hadn’t called them.
We enjoyed our cup of tea, and talked for what must have been hours. I only noticed the time when I realised my clock was winding backwards. The day had simply escaped me. He asked me once more to sign his book and I thought it must be for the plumbing so I wasted no time in scribbling down my signature and shaking his hand. I must say, the whizz bang and pop that followed made me jump, and when I looked around I wasn’t sure what had happened, but once the smoke had cleared, that’s when I realised.
I was aghast. I looked about the room and saw the messy floors, the corpses hanging on the wall and the keeper by the door grimacing at me with pointy ears and uncut nails. My younger brother, I thought. I never did like him, but to put me in a nursing home while I slept was beyond the pale.
Jeremy was sitting at a desk in a dark room with green wallpaper and torches burning on the wall. Across from him was a tall red man with pointy horns on his head, who must have had a terrible crick in his neck since, being so tall, he had to sit with his head tilted slightly to avoid the ceiling. The peculiar man sipped a cup of tea and chuckled.
“Oh Jeremy” he said and slurped the last few dregs. “Well, I’m sorry about the floors, where decorating at the moment”. He reached across the room and filled his cup from a large tea-urn with bright yellow eyes. “So Jeremy, tell me about that bar fight on Ben Nevis”. Jeremy threw up his arms with a smile across his face and launched into a story while the tall red man sat patiently and nodded along.
An other great read, well don.