Stairlift to Heaven

by Terry Ravenscroft

  A notice in the rear window, ‘Babe on Board’, informed me that the car’s owner was a female, unless there was a man who called himself ‘Babe’ who owned a totally pink car, which I very much doubted, unless Julian Clary was in town. This was confirmed a moment or two later when a blonde woman aged about twenty-five, dressed in a pink jump suit, walked out of the door of a hairdressers shop and made for the car. In addition to the pink jumpsuit she wore pink trainers, a pink ski cap and she was clutching a pink bag, which was no doubt filled with pink objects, purse, mobile phone, tissues, lipstick, vibrator, etc.

  When this pink vision got in the car she virtually disappeared from sight, lost in all the pinkness. All you could see was a face and a pair of hands, seemingly floating in a sea of pink.

  Years ago there used to be a company called ‘The Black Theatre of Prague’ who appeared on TV regularly, and whose act consisted of prancing about against a black background whilst wearing black jumpsuits and white gloves. All the viewer could see were disengaged pairs of hands seemingly floating about in the ether. Quite obviously this woman was ‘The Pink Theatre of Buxton’.

  It got me thinking about the thing that’s been intriguing me for years, which is of course ‘Why do women love pink so much?’ I used to think it was because babies are pink and all women love babies, so by extension loving pink comes naturally to them. But then it dawned on me that women’s breasts are pink and all men love women’s breasts and men don’t love pink, so....

  “Why do all women like pink?” I asked The Trouble when I got home.

  “That grid in the backyard is blocked again, you were supposed to be clearing it and all you can do is wonder why women wear pink?” she replied, quite sharply.

  “I’ll do it just as soon as I’ve found out why it is that women like pink,” I said.

  “It’s so that men don’t have to wear it,” she said. “Now go and clear that grid. “

  I went to clear the grid, a wiser man.

  ****

  MARCH 1 2011 A TIN OF PEAS.

  “Why are you sat holding a tin of peas to your arm?” I said, not unreasonably, to The Trouble, on entering the living room and discovering her in this bizarre pose. She gave me her frostiest look, which is pretty frosty; penguin’s toes have been known to drop off when subjected to less frosty looks. “You’ve no idea?” she asked.

  I thought about it for a moment. “You’ve lost it? You couldn’t find a tin of carrots? We’ve had the gas cut off and you’re warming them through with the heat of your body? Any of those things perhaps?”

  “Do you remember me asking you to bring a bag of frozen peas in with you from the corner shop?”

  “I do. But as I’ve already explained to you, Mr Ahmed had run out. Had a run on frozen pea curry probably, so I got a tin of peas instead. The very tin you are now holding to your arm, my precious sweet marrowfat, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

  “And you think that will work, do you?”

  “Work? What do you mean, work?”

  “I knew you hadn’t been listening properly. The trouble with you, Terence, is that you never do when I’m talking to you.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “You don’t. If you’d been listening properly you’d have known I wanted the bag of frozen peas to hold to my arm to help reduce the swelling caused when I strained my bicep yesterday. In which case you wouldn’t, on discovering that Mr Ahmed was out of frozen peas, have bought a tin of bloody peas instead!”

  “....Yes I would,” I replied calmly, after only a moment’s hesitation while I struggled to come up with some excuse. “That’s why I bought it.”

  “What?” This said with utter disbelief. That made two of us who didn’t believe it but I had to say something.

  “That’s why I got the tin of peas instead,” I said, managing to maintain a degree of smoothness that Rex Harrison would have been proud of.

  The Trouble shook her head as if to clear it. “Am I missing something here?”

  “Yes. You’re missing the knowledge that it is a well known fact that holding a tin of marrowfat peas to a ruptured bicep is a sure-fire way of bringing the swelling down. Florence Nightingale swore by it.”

  The Trouble was immediately apologetic. “And there was I thinking I was being sarcastic,” she said sheepishly.

  “Is it working?” I inquired solicitously. “Has it brought the swelling down any yet?”

  She drew back her arm and threw the tin of peas at me. She yelped out loudly in distress, the act of throwing the tin obviously causing her great pain in her strained muscle. I yelped out even more loudly as the tin caught me a nasty crack on the knee. In no time it became swollen. The Trouble suggested I should hold a tin of peas to it to bring down the swelling. She’s getting as bad as I am.

  ****

  March 9 2011. THE END.

  It is my birthday today. I am 70. It is five years since I started writing this journal so it is mission accomplished. And guess what? I don’t feel a day older. I feel five years older. But as I only felt 27 when I was 65 that’s still only makes me 32, still in my prime. I am still reasonably fit, notwithstanding all the ailments I have mentioned within these pages, and I still don’t need a stairlift. But I am a little nearer to one.

  ****

  If you enjoyed reading Stairlift to Heaven would you mind doing me a favour? If you are a member of facebook, recommend it to your facebook friends, if you have a Twitter account, tweet your opinion of it, or if you have neither simply tell anyone in your email address book who you think might like it. Failing that your next door neighbour will do.

  Thanks for this

  Terry Ravenscroft.

  ****

  Also by Terry Ravenscroft and available on Amazon Kindle

  ZEPHYR ZODIAC

  Dolly was rinsing the tea cups in the sink when Don came in, quite agitated.

  “There’s a young couple sat in our car, Doll!”

  “A young couple?”

  “Teenagers by the look of them. Sitting there as large as life.”

  “In our car? Are you sure, Don?”

  “Come and have a look if you don’t believe me.”

  Don took Dolly’s hand and led her to the front door. When they looked, the young couple were still in the car. Dolly took in the scene and turned to Don.

  “What do you think they’re doing there?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “They look very young.”

  “Not to mention scruffy. I sincerely hope they don’t soil the leopard skin seats.”

  “Perhaps they’ll go if we just ignore them.”

  “They look pretty settled to me. Oh no! Well if that isn’t the limit.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “He’s lit up a cigarette.”

  “We can’t allow that Don, smoking in our car.”

  “We most certainly can not, Doll.”

  “That won’t do the leopard skin seats any good at all. I mean sitting in our car is one thing, but....”

  They made their way down the drive and stopped at the car. The occupants were oblivious to them. Don tapped on the window, businesslike. The boy would down the window.

  “Excuse me but just what do you think you’re doing in our motor car?” said Don.

  “We’re living in it.”

  Zephyr Zodiac will be published early in 2012.

  ****

  I’M IN HEAVEN

  I pinched myself. I felt it. So it couldn’t be a dream. But if it wasn’t, if I really was in Piccadilly Gardens, how have I got here? I couldn’t have sleepwalked all the way from the hospital, it was over two miles, through city streets. Had leaving patients in corridors due to a bed shortage moved up a level? Had one of the nursing staff dumped me here until I wake up? I wouldn’t put it past them - only yesterday a down-and-out who’d collapsed in the street had been left outside in a wheelchair for want of a bed and only prompt action by a security man had stopped the bin men taking him.

/>   Before I could think of another test of my consciousness - I was still far from convinced, despite pinching myself, that I wasn’t dreaming - a tall man carrying a brief-case and a clipboard approached me. He was aged about thirty-five and dressed in casual but expensive-looking clothes. His long, thin, pleasant -looking face smiled down at me as he indicated the place on the bench beside me.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  I was still too wrapped up in wondering just what on earth was going on to answer. He sat down next to me nevertheless.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I’m The Archangel Phil. Your mentor. I’ll be meeting with you from time to time until you’re nicely settled in.” He opened a packet of cigarettes and offered me one. “I believe you indulge in these things?”

  My mouth fell open. Slack-jawed I looked from the man to the cigarette packet and back. He indicated the clipboard. “My information is correct? You do like a smoke?” He took a cigarette from the packet and pushed it into my hand.

  My mouth opened and shut silently a couple of times. Words eventually came out. “Can you tell me what’s going on here? I mean why am I in the middle of Piccadilly Gardens?”

  “You aren’t. You’re in heaven.”

  “What?”

  “Heaven.”

  Amazon Readers Review -

  This is the best book I have read in years! The subject matter is dealt with in such a humorous manner but this is a real page turner! I have read all of Mr Ravenscroft’s books and in my opinion this is THE BEST! Hilarious, sad, fascinating and a scintillating plot to boot! A must read! Very funny. - Martin K Davies

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  ****

  JAMES BLOND – STOCKPORT IS TOO MUCH

  He took the cool glass and looked straight into the eyes of the object of his affection. “Please, all my lovers call me James.”

  Pisa Vass returned his look, unblinkingly. “But I have never been your lover, Mr Blond.”

  She turned from him as if to walk away, but before she could he caught her lightly by the shoulders and applied just enough pressure to persuade her to turn to face him. “A state of affairs I am now going to take the greatest pleasure in rectifying,” he said, permitting his hands to slide down her arms to encircle her slender waist. He nodded towards the bedroom. “Come, my lovely Pisa Vass.”

  “No.” She pushed him away, not at all violently, but firmly enough to make it clear she meant what she said.

  Blond was surprised to say the least. He raised a puzzled eyebrow. “No?”

  “I can't.”

  His brow furrowed. “Can't? What do you mean, you can't?”

  “I'm having my period.”

  “Having your period?”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  He was completely baffled. “But....I mean you can’t be….the girls I meet are never having their period.”

  “Well I'm having mine,” said Pisa, simply.

  Blond simply couldn’t credit it; for he was speaking the gospel truth. Just like the James Bond of book and film fame not once in his entire career had he encountered a girl who happened to be having her period when he came a calling; that sort of thing just didn’t happen to famous secret agents.

  The girl smiled pleasantly. “I could manage a hand job?”

  Amazon Reader’s Review:-

  I'd come across Terry Ravenscroft quite recently via an author peer review site, and was delighted to discover how many amusing books he had written. This one lives up to the standard of the others I've seen, and keeps carefully just on the tasteful side of crude - I don't like crudity, sick humour or 'smut' but Terry somehow manages to avoid these things while still dealing with the fundamentals of human existence. And James Blond's spoof credentials don't stop him from reminding us sometimes of the original, which highlights Ravenscroft's skill in humorous writing. There are even aliens! – Janey Fisher

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  ****

  CAPTAIN’S DAY

  The problems posed by having a transvestite on the course were as nothing however once Philip had gone through the operation that transformed him into, if not a whole woman, then minus a set of male genitalia a whole woman. For it was then that Philip Hill, now Phyllis Hill, sought to play in the ladies’ competitions, rather than the men's. Not surprisingly the Sunnymere ladies’ section would not even contemplate the proposition. As far as they were concerned Phyllis Hill was still very much a man. That he was a man now minus a penis and testicles, in addition to being the proud owner, thanks to hormone treatment, of a pair of small but blossoming breasts, didn’t even enter into the argument. The way the ladies saw it was that although Philip Hill may very well no longer have male genitalia he certainly still had the same muscular six feet two inch frame that he’d had before, as well as the two strong arms of the plasterer’s mate he had been (and still was) for the last fifteen years, and therefore had an unfair advantage when it came to propelling a golf ball round the course, especially off the ladies’ tees.

  In an effort to reach some sort of compromise Phyllis had offered to play in the ladies’ competitions but off the men's tees, but to no avail. The ladies would not allow her to play in their competitions full stop, and that was the end of the matter. The club chairman George Grover had pointed out to the ladies’ committee, as delicately as he could, that Phyllis now had a vagina and bigger breasts than his wife, in fact bigger breasts than quite a number of the lady members, but the ladies had been adamant in their rejection of the new member without a member.

  Amazon Readers review:-

  This is a very funny book. It will be enjoyed by golfers and non golfers alike. In fact if Captains day was like this in real life, lots more would take up the game. Refreshingly non pc with events that only the author could ever think of. Great fun and I doubt you have ever read anything like it before. – Cornishblue.

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  ****

  INFLATABLE HUGH

  “There seems to have been a long gap between the date of my brother’s death and his funeral,” observed Pugh.

  “There was a rather unusual burial request,” explained Oldknow. “Certain difficulties had to be overcome in carrying it out.”

  “An unusual burial request?”

  “He wanted to be buried in a vagina.”

  “In Virginia?” Pugh raised his eyebrows. “What’s so unusual about that?” He knew that Aneurin had connections in the southern states of America, and whilst he could see why it might be a bit awkward, not to say inconvenient, burying someone in America who had met his end in Ramsbottom, Lancashire, he could see nothing particularly unusual about it.

  The solicitor leaned back in his seat slightly and peered at Pugh over his spectacles. “Not Virginia, Mr Pugh. A vagina.”

  Pugh wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “My brother wanted to be buried in a woman’s minge?”

  Oldknow winced at the crude language of the former Minister for Culture. “I’m afraid so. Not a real one of course. A coffin designed to look like one. He left strict instructions as to its design and construction. He was particularly insistent it should have lots of black pubic hair. ‘Like a bush’ was his most graphic way of describing it. And real hair. It cost a small fortune.

  Pugh didn’t at all like the idea of a small fortune being frittered away from his inheritance by the purchase of a coffin that looked like a vagina with real hair. However he was intrigued as to why anyone would want to make such a request in the first place. He asked the solicitor.

  Oldknow shrugged. “People get buried in all manner of things nowadays; indeed there are specialist coffin suppliers who cater for the most bizarre of
tastes. I once heard of someone being buried in a Red Arrows jet coffin. Another in a motor-bike sidecar, alongside her motor-cyclist husband who had met his demise a year earlier. In your brother Aneurin’s case, from what I’ve been told – although I didn’t delve too deeply I must admit - he believed very much in the rejuvenating powers of the vagina.”

  “Rejuvenating powers?” Pugh was surprised to say the least. “He’s not expecting it to bring him back to life, is he?”

  Amazon Reader’s Review:-

  "Apparently your brother maintained the belief that having sex with an inflatable rubber woman was almost as beneficial in creating a feeling of well-being as the real thing. This being the case he viewed his operation more like a public service than a moneymaking operation. Which isn't to say he didn't make substantial profits from the sales ..." Pugh's heart beat faster. Substantial profits. What a wonderful coming together of words.

  With the above opening paragraph of Inflatable Hugh I was hooked. Terry Ravenscroft's tongue in cheek writing had me laughing out loud from beginning to end. From the wily to the ingenuous, from the morally indignant Vigilantes Against Sex Toys to the crafty machinations of politicians, all are depicted with subtle insight into character. In recommending this as a `great' read I could only paraphrase the author's own writing: What a delightful coming together of words! - Rue.

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  ****

  FOOTBALL CRAZY

  Superintendent Screwer fixed Sergeant Hawks with a beady eye. When would they ever learn? “Where there is football, Sergeant, there is football hooliganism. Having been previously stationed at Leeds I know that for a fact; and I know all about the cancer in our society that football hooliganism has become.”