Tales from the tub - Tifanee

TIFANEE

Tifanee was the antithesis of her birth name. Intended to be 'Tiffany' one of the more popular names in the early 90's, a signifier of upper class luxury, her parents were phonetic retards. To be fair they were literal retards.

Tifanee was born in 1991, daughter to Mark and Angela Redden, both of whom suffered from relative degrees of mental retardation. Mark and Angela were loving parents and loving people. That was one thing Tifanee could say for her folks, retards are nice.

Tifanee often wondered how her life would have been different if she was born like them. She wasn't. She was bright. From the age of 5, she had been her parents, parent. She prepared breakfast, let the visiting day nurse in and got herself ready for school.

"My daddy is a lawyer," she would rehearse on the bus on the way to school, "My mummy is a housewife." She had to learn that lesson the hard way first day of kindergarten when she was the only one without a professional explanation for her parents existence.

As she got older, her lies became more elaborate.

"How is your dad, Tif?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know he is still in Paris, after winning the Law institue of Victoria award he decided to take a brief sojourn. My mother is thrilled, she has had her eye on this Parisian tailor and is going to get something made, don't know what, just something, you know, a little something, something."

The lies felt so natural. But, each evening she went home, had a cup of tea with the house nurse and discussed her parents progress that day.

"Your Dad did really well today Tif, he is reading at an 8th grade level, you shoud be really proud, make him a nice dinner, yeah, he has been asking for fish fingers all afternoon."

"Fish soldiers with tomato sauce!" came a cry of agreement, glee and self-pride from her father in the living room.

Tifanee burst into tears, she couldn't stop. Somewhere between her reality, the false reality she had created and the intensity of pubescent hormones she lost it.

A warm hand on her shoulder, it was her mother. "Hush baby, your our magic Tifanee, you don't cry, even when you were a baby you didn't cry, you can do anything, you are magic, they said we would never have any babies but we had a magic one, you, can we have fish soldiers now?"

A choked smile, a kind face from the day nurse, "Yes mum, go watch TV with dad and I'll call you when its ready, ok?"

"ok, happy magic baby?" said her mother with the most angelic innocence.

"Happy magic baby, thanks mum."

Tales from the tub - Walter

Right you bastards. Boring, apparently my happiness bores you. I have been informed. Things are clearly more interesting when my life is in the toilet. Now, while I certainly can't promise to be happy indefinitely, I have a gift for fucking things up in spectacular and unique ways. I have only been happy for a little while, give a girl some time.

So, in response to the constructive criticism I received today. You asked for it. My back catalog of fictional short stories, penned in the bath. To regale you with, while I think of a way to screw my life up again : )

WALTER

"But, is it meant to be yellow, I swear they never used to be yellow," Walter surveyed his fingernails, picking dirt and shit out from under them and massaging it into his trousers, "no, I don't think it's meant to be yellow, they look flaky too, I don't think they are meant to be flaky, no."

Walter was displeased. Things weren't quite going the way he had planned. As one part of his body failed him it took all his attention, to the detriment of another, in this case his fingernails. He hadn't really even considered his previous ailment an affliction, if his penis didn't work then he no longer had to service that monstrosity of a woman he married some years earlier.

It wasn't that he was no longer interested in sex, far from it, a 25 year old posterior was always able to make his member tweak, even at it's most advanced state of circulatory deprivation. But the truth was, he didn't stand a chance. He got head spins when he took a crap.

Driving a bus for a living wasn't thrilling him either. While he enjoyed feeling big on the road , his bus was Napoleons hat. When he took it off, he wasn't so big. He had also run out of excuses. Driving a bus initially put him through school, then got his kids through school and now, well now, it was just something he did. It was never intended to be what he did.

2am and he woke in a panic. He had a bad dream. Perhaps the dream woke him, perhaps it was the guttural snoring and post orgasmic flatulence of the devil woman next to him, perhaps it was the increasing pressure of his regurgitating urinary overflow. Whatever it was. Things had to change. He wasn't going to stay here waiting for death, he was already dead.

Walter was not a man of action, he was a man of procrastination and eventual defeat. But not this time. Between 3am and 5am he planned his escape. He was going to be the man he wanted to be.

He ate breakfast at 5:30am and went for a run. His limbs burned. Coming home he showered casting a disdainful scowl at the lump of womanhood that moved only to relieve herself. He dusted off his finest suit. He got dressed and he went to work. But not his work. The work he would have had if he had stopped driving a bus 20 years before.

"I'm Walter Clarendon, Mr Whitman is expecting me," he said officiously.

"Sorry Mr Clarendon, I don't have you in his diary, did you have an appointment."

"Did I have an appointment?," raising his voice slightly, "get me in that office before I share with Mr Whitman how incompetent his PA is, I have had this appointment for 2 months, he requested that I fly in from Geneva and you have the hide to ask me..."

"Sorry Mr Clarendon, of course, take a seat, I'll free up some time, my mistake." She looked at him. This young thing looked at him, not through him, at him. He was commanding respect, his member tweaked. Brief discussion on the telephone and he was ushered in.

"Walter what are you doing here?"

"Barry, I need a fucking job."

"Walter..."

"Barry, I got you laid remember, I saved your life, save mine."

"Walter, you never finished you professional placement, I can't take you on, your too old, I have kids working for me with more qualifications and willing to work for less money, help me here buddy."

From his brief case Walter produced an antique tin, opening the lid to reveal a stack of Polaroid photographs.

"Sure Barry, I understand mate, but help me here buddy, these photos of you with an indigenous male minor, where do I leave them on my way out, how's the wife?"