Ozzy's first osteopathy session

The first osteopathy session

‘Nice having a man about the house. Is it?’ Kevin asked.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ replied Eve, pinkly.



‘Very fragile things, backbones. Vulnerable,’ said Ozzy, flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles.




Kevin took the hint and clambered onto the row of tables, making sure that only the weight of his feet rested on the flimsy picnic table. Eve seemed rather impressed by Ozzy’s show of protectiveness as she left her shed to recommence manicuring her house.
‘He made Kevin stop asking awkward, embarrassing questions!’ she murmured.
Ozzy tentatively massaged the muscles either side of Kevin’s backbone and wondered that such an enormous back could be vulnerable to merely banding over. As Ozzy got into his stride, Kevin relaxed into a more reflective state of mind.
‘I like being treated normally for a change,’ he began. ‘I’m so big that people are always careful what they say around me. There isn’t a trace of violence in me really. I mean, the arm wrestling is only a bit of fun.’
‘Yes, Kevin,’ said Ozzy. ‘What do you mean by ‘normally’?’
‘When most people don’t even come up to your shoulders, they seem to feel intimidated.’
‘Yes. I can imagine that.’
‘I do tell people what I’m really like but no one seems convinced,’ continued Kevin, as he slowly sank into the improvised table.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well. For instance, I’ve got dozens of videos of ballet, but no one believes that. Not that ballet is wimpish anyway. The average ballerina is stronger than the average man. They just use their strength in different ways.’
‘Ha! Everyone knows that’s not true. You just mention ballet to wind people up. More challenges at arm wrestling!’
‘No. It’s true. I really do like ballet. I join in with the videos, sometimes.’
‘You won’t catch me like that, Kev. Ballet my foot!’
‘Oh I give up,’ said Kev. Not for the first time. He thought of all the hours he’d spent digging out the foundations of his front room so he could lower the floor by eighteen inches. ‘So I can practice my ballet’, he’d explained to all and sundry. ‘I wonder what he’s really doing?’ all and sundry had duly replied.
Ozzy stood back, the better to peer along Kevin’s back. It was definitely not straight and there seemed to be muscle tension around the kink, but there was so much muscle it was difficult to work out where the backbone would be. Down there somewhere. Ozzy massaged the tension out of the muscle, Kevin sighed, mumbled something about ‘sundry’, and fell asleep. Ozzy poked about, wondering what to do.
‘Hmmm, Ballet my foot ... Vouz avez balletez votre footey,’ he mumbled.
‘What?’ said Kevin, coming around with a start.
‘The kink’s definitely just here,’ explained Ozzy, his thumbs buried in Kevin’s back. ‘How do I put it right? It’s a bit different to a model skellington ... Ils sont balletons le hoof ... er ... A lot bigger for a start.’
Ozzy persevered with relaxing massage and very soon Kevin was fast asleep. Ozzy imagined opening a well designed safe, ear to the door, right hand teasing the dial, not breathing. There was a click.
‘Bleeding hell!’ thundered Kevin. ‘Where am I?’
Twenty yards away Eve put her hands over her ears, unfortunately they were covered in soap suds.
‘Could you stop thrashing about? The thingy’s going to collapse,’ Ozzy pleaded.
‘What thingy?’
‘What Eve said. It’s not the picnic table and your knees are on it.’
‘Ironing board?’
‘Yes. That’s it.’
‘I must have dropped off.’
‘No. You’re still on the table. You’ve been asleep.’
‘That’s what I just said.’
‘Ah. Does it still hurt?’
‘I don’t believe it does,’ murmured Kevin, running the back of one hand along his spine.
‘Better be a bit gentle getting up,’ Ozzy advised. ‘That picnic table looks a bit rickety.’
He stood up, gingerly, taking great care not to tip over or bend the picnic table, and put his head through the roof of the shed. ‘Woops!’ he said.
Ozzy got the giggles.
‘I’ll call in and mend the roof,’ said Kevin, sheepishly. ‘Soon’, he added.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘How much do you ask?’ inquired Kevin, stepping carefully out of the shed and hefting his wallet.
‘I ask Eve things, quite often,’ said Ozzy, trying to recall his school lessons on sentence construction.
‘I mean, how much are you asking me?’
Deja Vu happened. ‘Ah! All donations gratefully received!’
Kevin gave Ozzy some money and went to find Eve to apologise for damaging her shed.
‘Blimey!’ said Ozzy, looking at the money.
Eve had noticed Kevin step out of her shed, then give some money to Ozzy. As Ozzy received the money he looked surprised, then stood up straight and actually stood still for a change. His expression changed and for once he came over all ‘responsible’, very nearly adult. Eve looked smug and genuinely pleased for him. An image of a spider’s web crossed her mind, but she shrugged it off.

Number 9 realised their next meeting was due in a few minutes and it had somehow been side-tracked from its study of Margaret Moore. Margaret was definitely one of its favourites, but it didn’t entirely understand how this had happened.
‘I’ll have a quick peep before our meeting,’ it decided.

Other characters from the novel:

sci-fi fantasy

The First Osteopath

The First Osteopath

Eve opened her post to find a reply from her gas supplier.

PigGas Ltd,
Pig Bridge,
Kidneyswamp,
KS3,CH4
form AT2
Dear Sir,
Unrepeatable offer! Five percent off your gas bill if you pay by Standing Order! Just complete the details below. You used 400 units of gas last year, so we are arranging your standing order to cover 75 units per month. Just complete the form below.

Name
Address
Bank
Favourite colour
Star sign
Credit card details:- No. expiry date.


Eve fumed. She went to read her daily planner. Booky Hole was on the agenda again and dusting the books needed an old toothbrush. At least an old toothbrush seemed to work very well. The only way to dust behind the table legs in the very depths of Booky Hole was to get into her least favourite yoga pose, the supadeepbananasarnie. Having finally got into this position, toes under the piano, back arched over the lower horizontal support of the table, toothbrush ready for action - there was a knock at the door. Eve untangled herself and opened the door.

‘Morning Eve. Is it okay if I carry on with Skelly?’ asked Ozzy.
‘Who?’
‘The skellington.’
‘Oh yes. Of course. Er ... do you want a cup of tea or something?’
‘Oh. Could do. Later on perhaps.’

‘Okay. Do you want to come through?’ asked Eve, casting a critical eye over Ozzy’s unkempt appearance. She crossed her fingers behind her back. Ozzy followed Eve’s gaze down to the collection of cobweb-covered fishing flies attached to his trouser leg.

‘I’ll just nip around the back way if you like. Along the towpath,’ he suggested.

‘Okay,’ said Eve with considerable relief.

Eve added ‘make tea for Ozzy’ to her list and reassembled the supadeepbananasarnie. There was another knock at the door. The visitor looked like Kevin, but seemed six inches shorter. It was indeed Kevin but he appeared to have a new joint half way up his back.

‘Ooer,’ said Eve, putting one hand to her cheek and shrinking into herself.

‘Yes, exactly,’ said Kevin. ‘I heard Ozzy’s been doing things to backbones. A skeleton that is. In your shed. I wondered if he could help me a bit?’
‘Ooer,’ said Eve. ‘He’s down the garden now. Come on through. What have you done?’
‘Picked up a nail file. Off the floor. First thing this morning.’ Kevin pointed to the floor, possibly thinking that Eve might have forgotten
where it was.

‘Ooer,’ she replied, and nodded to signify some degree of understanding.
‘I really need to warm up a bit before I get that near the floor. It’s a long way down for me.’

‘Ooer. Who told you Ozzy was here, as a matter of interest?’
‘I promised not to tell,’ said Kevin, looking back into his memory to check the details.
‘She made you promise?’
‘Yes.’

‘Well you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Dot, would you?’
‘That’s right,’ Kevin agreed.
Eve timidly held onto Kevin’s shirt sleeve. He looked as though he might fall over at any moment, and she wanted to appear helpful. Did Kevin, twenty three stone, six feet nine, temporarily six feet three, feel any more secure being held on the shirt sleeve by a comparatively tiny, timid woman? Funnily enough, he did.

They tottered uncertainly through the house then down the garden path, Eve having to step on her garden now and then on account of Kevin’s width. Eve peeped into the garden shed and was pleased to see Ozzy working at the model skeleton. “Being industrious,” she thought.

‘Ozzy? Mr Kevin. I mean Mr Sharon. He’s hurt his back,’ Eve explained. ‘Could you have a look? Help, sort of thing?’

Ozzy looked up from his skeleton. He’d been trying to decide which position; sitting, lying down, dangling from chandeliers, or whatever; caused the least strain to the back. From his own experience he concluded it must be alternately lying down and hyperactivity; short bursts of each. An examination of the skeleton gave no clues as to why this should be the case. Ozzy was vaguely aware that drawing conclusions from only one person’s experience, albeit his own, might be a bit hasty. Did he know anyone else who alternated hyperactivity with inactivity on a regular basis? He did - namely Zorba. Admittedly Zorba’s activity was often confined to the planning stage, but on the other hand he did bend over a lot at his allotment. Did he get back ache? He did not. Was a sample of two sufficiently large? It would do.

Did this mean he was becoming a back expert? ’Course it did! From that mysterious mine shaft that brings thoughts ‘up’ to consciousness from who knows where, a doubt emerged.
‘Er. If I don’t succeed, I won’t end up buried in the foundations of your next building, will I?’ he asked.
‘Course not!’ said Kevin, who’d never hit anyone since he was about eleven. He’d never needed to. In years gone by he had accidentally broken a couple of arms in arm wrestling contests, but that was only because the opposition tried too hard on account of not being sober.

‘Er. You could lie on the table?’ suggested Ozzy.
He tried, but the table was nowhere near long enough for someone of Kevin’s height.
‘I could bring my picnic table and ironing board. They’re about the same height as this table. Put them all in a row?’ Eve offered, waving her hands around to try and convey the idea of three surfaces in a row.

‘What’s an ironing board?’ asked Ozzy.
Eve sighed and Kevin chortled, but it made his back ache worse, so he soon stopped. He thought Eve’s idea was a good one, so she scooted off up the path to fetch the ironing board and picnic table, muttering as she went.

‘I think I might soon understand some of Mrs Moore’s complaints,’ she sighed.
‘You living here now?’ asked Kevin, as casually as he could.
‘No,’ said Ozzy.
‘How come you’re here then?’
‘I’m just using Eve’s shed. To mend things.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes.’

Eve returned with the ironing board and collapsible picnic table. Into an atmosphere.

Picnics by the Sea

Picnics by the Sea
for Ozzy and Eve

Eve and Ozzy passed Southside Villas and approached Bridport Farm. Eve had prepared a picnic and after many hints Ozzy had finally offered to carry it.
‘Shall we have the picnic now?’ asked Ozzy for the fifteenth time. He adjusted the rucksack on his shoulders as if to emphasise the weight.
‘I’d like to get to the crop circle first if you don’t mind. We could have the picnic there.’
‘Okay.’

They went past the farm and saw Selwyn Cockerell, the farmer, busily mending his tractor in the farmyard. He stopped work long enough to wave an oily hand and treated them to a generous grin from which approximately every other tooth was absent without leave; even those in evidence were misty, presumed lead. About two hundred yards along the bridle path they spotted the crop circle in the field of barley, and carefully walked along a track through the corn where a tractor had been.

Objective view of the crop circle

‘It’s circular,’ said Eve, examining the crop circle.
‘It’s in the crop,’ said Ozzy, trying to show some interest for Eve’s sake. ‘Shall we eat now?’ he added.
‘Yes, let’s.’
Thirty seconds later Ozzy had finished his food. He spent the next twenty minutes fidgeting while Eve ate two sandwiches. Number 9 was pleased to note that they both drank tea, though it was puzzled by their contrasting styles. Eve carefully poured her tea from her flask into a cup placed in a saucer. Ozzy poured his tea into a saucer and blew on it, creating clouds of steam. He then guzzled it down with apparent delight, accompanied by slurping noises, expressions of contentment and complaints about it being too hot. Eve was also puzzled by Ozzy’s style of tea drinking, and she said so.
‘It tastes better this way,’ he explained, as he licked the remains of the sugar from the bottom of the saucer.
‘The sugar would dissolve more easily if you stirred it in a cup!’ Eve countered.

Home Sweet Home

When they returned from their trip to Eve’s house, Ozzy was puffing.
‘Phew, I’m not used to having so much exercise during the day,’ he said, and collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs on the sofa, simultaneously throwing the rucksack on the floor, as he always did when he got indoors. Eve froze in horror. She tried to explain that hers was a tidy house, but appeared to have lost the power of speech.
‘ ... ,’ she said.
Ozzy didn’t notice. He went outside and came back with his ‘special gift’. The skeleton. He beamed as only a true craftsperson or parent with new-born baby can.
‘ ... ,’ she repeated.
Ozzy realised all was not well with the world and the light in his eyes faded. ‘Do you not like it?’ he asked, pointing at the skeleton.
‘It’s bent. Your bags are thrown all over the place and so are you!’ said Eve, finally finding her voice, which had meandered up an octave or so.
‘Ah. What do you mean ‘it’s bent’?’
‘I mean it’s not straight. Look at it.’ There was a tiny trace of spirallic twist and a tinier list to the left.
‘Ah. You don’t want it then?’
‘Well, if it was straight perhaps. Put it in the shed, if you like,’ she said, calming down a bit. ‘You can sit in the shed as well if you’re going to lie all over the place like a cluttermungus.’
Ozzy stomped noisily towards the shed and sulked. ‘Can’t sit while I’m lying down. Twit!’ he said.

Men and their Toys
(Fidget and Ozzy)

Eve sat indoors, quietly and symmetrically, and sulked. ‘Life doesn’t seem to happen like my imagination,’ she lamented.
After a while Ozzy tried to straighten out the skeleton by dangling a model tractor off its pelvic girdle, but this seemed to introduce twists in other places. Meanwhile Eve decided she’d make them some tea. She had been a bit abrupt. Fidget came around to the shed to see what was happening and showed Ozzy his latest gizmo. He really needed to press on with the locks, but gizmos were more interesting. This particular gizmo was a scaled down model of a biological dishwasher.
‘I’ll try the real thing if the model looks promising,’ he promised.
‘Have you considered using paper plates, or eating in the pub?’ asked Ozzy.
‘No. I’d get bored. Of course I do concede that QT’s cooking is much better than mine.’
Ozzy examined Fidget’s model, considered asking for an explanation of how it was intended to work or even what it was supposed to achieve, then decided to keep quiet as a vision of long and incomprehensible explanations passed through his mind.
Eve was beginning to wonder whose shed it was at the bottom of HER garden as she noticed Dot was also heading that way.

Enter Dot the Sociologist/Gossip

‘Er, excuse me barging in, but I couldn’t find you in your shed, Fidget. Then I heard you in here. About these locks you’re making. They fit on doors, don’t they?’ asked Dot.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s funny how I was burgled as soon as my neighbours had them fitted.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s funny how locks on doors stop thieves coming in through the windows?’ explained Dot.
‘Yes. Now you come to mention it. Arnold never asked me to make any window locks,’ Fidget explained.
A penny dropped in Ozzy’s mind. Ten pounds actually. Ten pounds of guilt. And anger.
‘You look miles away, Oz. Are you all right?’ asked Dot.
‘Yes. Ten pounds too heavy.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Dot, examining his slim, nerve ridden physique.
‘Nothing.’ Ozzy shook his head as though dispelling an unwelcome image.
Eve made some tea and put it onto a tray. She peeped out of her kitchen window and waited for her neighbours to go away.
‘I can’t face an interrogation from Dot at the moment. Not that it’s any of her business if someone of the male variety is apparently mending a skeleton in my garden shed. I’m sure Mumsy would ... er ... .’
Eve’s train of thought and speech came to an abrupt halt, and she looked at the photo of her mother on the mantelpiece. ‘I don’t know what Mumsy would think, actually.’
Ozzy was unusually quiet so Fidget gave Dot a meaningful glance and they left him to his thoughts, then Eve arrived with her tray of food.
‘I’ve made us a snack.’
‘Oh. Thanks. I’ve been trying to straighten the skellington,’ said Ozzy.
‘Oh. Thanks. I mean thank you,’ replied Eve. Tea time was subdued as both combatants had stopped imagining how time spent with the other might be and finally experienced it. The experienced and imagined versions were rather different. Eve didn’t join in with Ozzy’s excitable and rapidly changing activities; Ozzy didn’t appreciate, or even notice, Eve’s immaculate routine of making her world ‘just so’. They each suddenly felt disoriented, even lost. Eve had lost her sense of life being carefully planned. Life not being planned was Ozzy’s plan, so far as he’d ever thought about it. He’d suddenly mislaid that plan, too, and wondered what he ought to do. He was so unaccustomed to the word ‘ought’ that he wasn’t even sure how to spell it. Wasn’t there more than one of them anyway? Ought and aught? The opposite of naught? Or was it naut? That sounds nautical, thought Ozzy, and talking of boats, he felt all at sea and decided to leave. He realised with some horror that in a moment of weakness he’d made a decision instead of relying on the infinitely preferable impulses he was accustomed to.
‘Can I come back and persevere with mending the skellington, sometime?’ he managed to say, without any premeditation.
‘Yes. If you like.’

A Symmetrical end to the Day
leaves Eve Feeling Better

Ozzy left. Eve returned to her house and played the piano for a few minutes, then consulted her daily plan.
‘Oh deary me. What have I been thinking of? I’m two hours behind schedule!’ she exclaimed, sounding oddly relieved as she rolled up her sleeves. Each to the same level, of course.

Margaret is Cuddleworthy

Margaret is Cuddleworthy

So says Brian, but is he after something?

Number 9 is approved as psychologist

Number 9 had received a memo from Number 12 agreeing that Number 9’s idea of studying hairy mammal psychology could become its approved mission, after serving tea. Number 9 couldn’t remember having had the idea, but it quite fancied the job anyway so it wouldn’t make a fuss. Not immediately, anyway. It could now observe the hairy mammals quite openly, it realised, and decided to start straight away with one of its favourites, Margaret Moore. Margaret sat on her kitchen stool appearing considerably less cheerful than usual as she supervised the children’s preparations for another day at school. Brian was outside polishing his truck as postwoman Polly called. Brian dashed in with a letter and a parcel for Margaret.

Margaret is cuddleworthy

‘Look Cuddleworthy, we’ve got a letter from Mr Toller!’ he declared.
‘Cuddleworthy! He didn’t even look at me, let alone cuddle. I’m sure he was having erotic dreams about that truck last night. I’ve heard of blue movies but I didn’t know they featured blue trucks!’ complained Margaret after he’d passed her the parcel from Bland Ford Print and moved to the window to check his truck was still there.
Margaret opened her parcel; newsletters for the Kidneyswamp Twinning Association. Brian looked puzzled and crestfallen as he started to read the letter from Arnold Toller.

But there's interest on their loan

‘Er, Margaret? Do you remember anything about twenty percent interest on our business loan?’
‘No I don’t!’ she replied, grabbing the letter. ‘How much extra are we making, using the truck?’ she demanded.
‘Allowing for extra running costs, diesel and so on, it’s just about exactly, near enough, to the nearest ten pounds, er, nothing. It was more for a while, until Jobsworth started fighting back,’ Brian replied.

He reversed towards the doorway pretty much by instinct, fearing that with Margaret in her current mood everything may turn out to be his fault, merely because he happened to be nearest.
Jobsworth had a fruit and veg stall in Smogdale. He’d been renowned for his resistance to change for many years but had reacted to the Moore’s mobile market by getting his own truck, and he now went around Kidneyswamp in the afternoons undercutting Brian. Margaret went very quiet and Brian surmised this was a good moment to go back to work. He rather hoped he’d feel better when he got back into his truck, but the recent rain had contrived to stain it with mud. Margaret looked out of the window watching Brian approach his truck. He wiped the mud off the headlamps but his stooped posture gave away his lack of enthusiasm. Uncharacteristically, she was completely unsure who to blame. Her feeling of being mistreated just stayed within her and fermented. Margaret looked further down the path and saw a couple walking together. A rather unlikely couple to her way of thinking.

Previous episodes archive for 2008

Next episode to follow shortly :)

Ozzy the Thief

spying on Ozzy the Thief

Number 11 was being its relatively cheerful self, but was finding it more difficult than usual. It’s favourite hairy mammal, Squint Eastward, was being thoroughly boring since he seemed disinclined to do anything other than read old newspapers which he’d promised his mother he’d take to the recycling container. Number 11 reversed away from its monitor and consulted its pile of memos from chairentity Number 12, wondering what job to do, having already completed its quota of electronics. The most exciting task by far was deciding on a name for their group meetings - about as exciting as choosing which side of a blank sheet of paper to start writing on - so Number 11 replaced the memos in their box and returned to its monitor, resolving to study another hairy mammal for a change. It didn’t want to watch anything boring or predictable so it chose Ozzy. Unless he was asleep he’d no doubt be doing something entertaining.

The Mood for Mischief

In fact, Ozzy was skipping home along the towpath feeling mischievous. More mischievous; that’s what he felt. He’d toyed with the idea of solving problems, motivated by feelings of guilt, but had plumped for mindless distraction instead. He may even watch TV if he could sit still long enough. Perhaps Fidget could modify his set so he could watch several channels at once? As Ozzy walked speedily along the towpath, occasionally changing his mind about which way to go as endless possibilities for entertainment passed through his mind, twilight descended and he calmed a little. A middle aged man came towards him carrying two cases.

Pleas to Lady Luck
and wrestling without ones conscience

‘Ahha! Today is my lucky day. Lady Luck, I’m just going home with nothing in mind, minding my own business.’ Ozzy informed the passing clouds.
The middle aged gent looked surprised to find someone apparently talking to the sky. He looked even more surprised when Ozzy stopped talking and put him in an arm lock.
‘What’s going on? What do you want, you ruffian?!’ complained the armlockee.
‘Do I? Je ruffian; Tu ruffian; Vouz avez ruffianez; Nous avons ruffianons? I don’t think so,’ said Ozzy, wondering how to get his string out of his pocket whilst holding both the victims arms behind his back.
‘What are you burbling on about? Let me go!’
‘No chance. You are being robbed. I want your cases.’ The gentleman struggled for a while, but Ozzy’s long arms were effective. Rather like being tied up with steel cables.
‘If you just lie down, co-operatively, I won’t even have to tie you up,’ Ozzy explained.
‘Don’t talk such drivel. Let go of me this instant.’
‘Yeah. Okay.’
‘What?’
‘Only kidding. It’s the ground for you matey.’ Ozzy dumped him on the ground and tied his hands fairly loosely, his ‘half hour’ knot, then made off with the cases to his home. On the way he passed Roland and Henry, tramping, as it were, towards him. He carried the cases in a confident manner and whistled happily giving the impression of a well-adjusted and responsible citizen purposefully pursuing their latest good deed for the day. He paused whistling long enough to treat the tramps to a good-natured smile before resuming his rendition of ‘I’m Dreaming Of A White Christmas’.
Seconds later, when he’d passed out of their sight, he suddenly wondered if it had been rather a tactless choice of tune to whistle in the presence of the tatty twosome. He needn’t have worried because they had other things on their minds.
‘I see Ozzy’s managed to rob someone then,’ Henry observed.
‘Too true,’ Roland agreed.
‘I wonder who he’ll give the booty to this time, when he discovers he doesn’t really need it?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Roland, which hardly seemed a useful or informative reply. Henry appeared unconcerned by this detail and entertained himself by greasing the tiny hinges in his spectacles. What did he use for grease? You wouldn’t want to know.
When Ozzy reached his home he forced open the cases, feeling excited and optimistic. The first case contained syringes, aspirin and a mallet; The usual tools of the trade of a Smogdale doctor. The other larger case contained a DIY model of a human skeleton. Ozzy was instantly struck by the fact that human skeletons are symmetrical and he started assembling it, with great care.
‘Perhaps Eve would like this?’ he wondered, as he hung it from a nail.

sci-fi fantasy