Clovenhoof's Diary: August, page 1
Table of Contents
1st August
2nd August
3rd August
4th August
6th August
7th August
8th August
9th August
10th August
11th August
12th August
13th August
14th August
15th August
16th August
17th August
18th August
19th August
20th August
22nd August
23rd August
24th August
25th August
26th August
27th August
28th August
29th August
30th August – 06:30am
06:57am
08:42am
08:51am
09:26am
10:02am
10:09am
10:33am
11:00am
12:18pm
12:24pm
12:55pm
1:00pm
1:06pm
1:13pm
1:15pm
1:16pm
1:30pm
1:42pm
1:46pm
1:51pm
2:00pm
2:04pm
2:17pm
2:21pm
2:26pm
2:29pm
2:31pm
2:45pm
2:51pm
2:56pm
3:00pm
3:14pm
3:19pm
3:20pm
3:20pm
3:22pm
3:25pm
3:26pm
3:27pm
3:28pm
3:29pm
3:30pm
3:31pm
3:33pm
3:35pm
5:04pm
8:00pm
31st August
Clovenhoof's Diary: August
Heide Goody & Iain Grant
Pigeon Park Press
‘Clovenhoof's Diary: August’ Copyright © Heide Goody and Iain Grant 2019
The moral right of the authors has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except for personal use, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Published by Pigeon Park Press
Cover art by Mike Watts
www.pigeonparkpress.com
info@pigeonparkpress.com
1st August
As dawn crept over Boldmere, the Reverend Zack Purdey peered out of the circular attic window at the street below.
“No Angel patrols in sight,” he said.
The attic was a clean and homey space directly above the Hallowed Grounds coffee shop, one of the many places that had been forcibly closed by Mayor Tessa Bloom. The attic was home to an array of camp beds, sticks of furniture, boxes of pamphlets and a little wired up hub of laptop computers. It was a hidden space in a town under siege, a sort of above-ground inversion of the secret bar underneath the Boldmere Oak.
The attic was also home to a surprising assortment of Christians and Satanists.
Reverend Zack went over to the primus stove in the corner to check on the brewing coffee while Clovenhoof yawned and stretched and sat up on his makeshift bed in the corner.
“Asmondius makes the best coffee,” said Zack, gesturing to the Satanist sitting on a corner bed and reading a dog-eared copy of Rosemary’s Baby. Asmondius paused in his habitual stroking of his beard to give Clovenhoof a cheery wave before silently returning to his book.
Miranda grunted and shuffled from beneath her covers.
“I can smell coffee.”
“Almost ready,” said Zack.
She blinked blearily at him.
“If you hadn’t dropped that rope to us in the alley…”
“It was the Christian thing to do.”
Asmondius gave him a mildly reproachful look.
“And also in accordance with the teachings of the Church of Satan,” Zack conceded.
The pot on the stove began to steam and he doled out drinks and stale pastry snacks to the half dozen or so people who were awake or waking.
Clovenhoof didn’t understand exactly what was going on.
“What is this place for?” he said.
“It’s the heart of the local ministry now that my church has been taken from me,” said Zack. “I’m still preaching. On the streets if need be. Still trying to keep the congregation together.” He patted a box that Clovenhoof saw was an industrial-sized catering pack of assorted biscuits. “Stealth coffee morning today in a secret location,” he grinned.
He gestured to the various Satanists. “Asmondius, Baal, Cain and the others have suffered more direct discrimination than the St Michael’s crowd. They’ll be arrested if they even set foot on the street.”
“It’s like racism,” said a man covered in facial piercings. “It used to be bad enough when I got stopped all the time in airports.”
“You set off all the metal detectors, Cain,” said a man missing most of his front teeth.
“Like I say, racism.”
“In these times, anyone who is not of the ‘true faith’ is victimised,” said Zack.
“Adversity makes strange bedfellows,” said Asmondius gnomically and turned a page in his book.
“I can’t see how the wider world is letting this happen to Sutton,” said Miranda.
“Well, the new prime minister thinks it’s all wonderful,” said Zack.
“Really?”
“Said so on the radio this morning. Talked a lot of waffle about civic pride and British values.”
“Makes you sick to be British,” said Miranda.
“Makes me glad I’m not,” said Clovenhoof. “Oh, which reminds me. Last night…”
Miranda looked at him. “Am I mistaken or did you propose to me last night just before we escaped from the police?”
“I might have done,” he said. “Um, spur of the moment type thing.”
Miranda’s look was doubtful in the extreme.
“I love a good wedding,” said Asmondius, without looking up from his book.
“But it’s not something to be entered into lightly,” said Zack.
“No,” agreed Miranda.
Zack checked the window again.
“The coast is clear if you two want to head off. I imagine you have a lot to talk about…”
2nd August
The Archangel Michael heard the front door of his apartment shut.
“Just me,” called his boyfriend, Andy. “Smells delicious. What are you cooking?”
“Yakitori chicken,” Michael replied, deliberately avoiding adding that he was making it from a ready meal kit he’d bought on a trip to Waitrose.
There was no shame in getting ready meals from the supermarket, especially since it was from the classiest of supermarkets, doubly so since the last Waitrose inside Sutton’s borders had been closed for over a month and it was a significant undertaking to get to the nearest one across the border. Nonetheless, Michael liked to maintain the pretence that he made everything from scratch.
He turned the hob down and went through to the dining room. Andy, standing in his gym kit with a sweat towel around his neck, took his shoes off before entering the dining room. Fiancé or not, Michael was not going to permit sweaty gym shoes in the clean rooms of the house.
“I’ll mix a Long Island Iced Tea while you shower,” said Michael.
“What’s this?” said Andy, nodding at the notes spread across the table.
“Menu ideas. For the wedding reception.”
Andy picked one up. “What’s ‘scraped orecchiette with chorizo’?”
“I read about it on a New York food website,” said Michael.
“‘Sprouted plum bombs’?”
“Very popular in certain circles.”
Andy laughed as he read the next. “‘Folk farfalle drippings with naive booze waffle’?”
“Er…”
“You know my family have simple tastes, right?” Andy said.
Michael did indeed. He had met Andy’s parents and they had fallen in love with Michael immediately (as was only right) but they, like Michael’s pint-sized boyfriend, were cut from earthy peasant stock. Michael had introduced Andy to many culinary wonders and Andy had taken to them with delight, but his parents remained entirely unreconstructed in their tastes.
“A carvery,” suggested Andy. “Some ham sandwiches. A couple of quiches.”
“Really?” said Michael, pained.
Andy nodded. “I saw this thing on the news today. Brexit’s coming —”
“They’ve been saying that for a while now,” said Michael.
“It’s coming,” Andy insisted, “and they say that the average family food bill is going to rise by several hundred quid. Come November and we’ll be eating nothing but pot noodles and the cheapest cuts of unidentified ‘meat’ not…” He read. “‘Lifted gravlax and lime balls.’”
He snorted at the ridiculousness of it.
“I just wanted it to be nice,” said Michael, deflated.
“And it will be.” Andy gave him a peck on the cheek. “Now, I’m getting a shower. Mix drinks. And then let’s eat Waitrose ready meals and veg out, okay?”
Michael nodded. Maybe he did need to tone down his menu plans, but there were other aspects o
f the big day that he wouldn’t be swayed on so easily.
3rd August
Michael had ordered Clovenhoof to attend an important discussion in Ben’s kitchen. Clovenhoof wondered what it might be.
When he got there, Michael had somehow wrestled a flipchart through the piles of boxes and books and had erected it in the last remaining spot next to the fridge. The top of the flipchart was headed, in huge cut-out letters Michael and Andy’s wedding: Mood Board. There were fabric samples, sketches, sequins and feathers. Lots of feathers. Michael, Ben and Clovenhoof were pressed round it so close that Clovenhoof was able to tickle himself under the chin with one of the feathers. Michael flicked it out of his way. “I need to keep this clean,” he said.
“At least until the wedding night,” said Clovenhoof with a waggle of his eyebrows.
“I need you to take this seriously, Jeremy,” said Michael. “I want this wedding to be perfect, and if you and Miranda are to share the day with us, then I cannot emphasise enough that you must not spoil it, undermine it or derail it. Understood?”
Clovenhoof put his hand over his heart. “Hey, we all want a nice party, got it!”
Michael looked unconvinced, but turned to Ben.
“Now, there are definitely some venue difficulties with so many buildings locked down and unavailable. Andy and I are extremely grateful for your offer to share the use of our glorious town hall. However, I must insist that we keep this separate from the convention activities taking place in there.”
“Not a problem. I guarantee that I will keep everything ring fenced for you,” said Ben. “I will be in charge of the master spreadsheet, and I will put clear signage on all of the doors. Your space will be protected. Your decorations will remain pristine.”
Michael indicated the mood board. “You’ll see that we came up with the idea of a swan themed wedding. There will be billowing white sheets of chiffon decorating the walls, and the chairs will be draped with flowing white covers. We will, of course, have a huge cake with swan decorations, and maybe even some amusing swan wings mounted on the walls as a textured accent. Of course there will be swan origami wedding favour holders.”
“Of course,” said Ben.
“Andy’s making them as we speak.” Michael turned to Clovenhoof. “Now, there are many elements of this wedding that are non-negotiable, that is to say the decoration, the food and the service itself. Aside from that, what would you like to add to the celebrations for yourself and Miranda?”
Clovenhoof thought for a moment. Miranda hadn’t requested anything in particular. He’d ask her when he got the chance, but he should probably use his initiative for now.
“A massive cake that someone can jump out of,” he said, “and fireworks, obviously.”
Michael nodded. “You’ll get someone who knows what they’re doing to take care of those?”
“Of course!” grinned Clovenhoof.
4th August
Clovenhoof lay on Miranda’s double bed and squirmed his buttocks in the post-coital dampness of the sheets. His back ached. And his neck. And his elbows.
Miranda’s wild abandon between the sheets was something he had almost got used to. Her inventiveness too… Her violent bedroom gymnastics seemed to punish a different part of his body every time, as though she was working through a rota and intending to give every inch of his body a sexual pummelling.
As he was trying to think of any part of his body that she hadn’t banged or bent to breaking point, Miranda snuggled up to him and said: “When you think about it, it’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he agreed.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s all stupid. Tanning salons, stupid. Pilates, stupid. Air travel, road tax, dieting, music — stupid, stupid, stupid.”
“I was thinking about marriage,” she said.
“Oh, that’s definitely stupid,” he said.
“And yet,” she added pointedly, “you and I are getting married in less than four weeks.”
“Oh.” His brow furrowed. “Yes, but… but that’s stupid with a purpose.”
“Oh, that’s all right then!”
“Sarcasm?”
“Obviously!”
He pulled her near and inhaled deeply. The moments after sex were almost as good as the sex itself. Especially the smells… Him, her, the stink of sweat, the sweet tang of their love juices.
“Love juices,” he mused.
“What?”
“There’s no words to describe love juices that don’t sound either stupid or really wrong. I like that.”
She slapped him, hard. “I’m talking about our wedding, Jeremy! We’ve just agreed it’s pointless but we’re still doing it.”
“To get me out of a tricky situation,” he reminded her. “And sticking up two fingers to the man, as well.”
This last seemed to mollify her slightly. “And is that it?” she said. “Is there no point to marriage beyond that?”
He shrugged. “It’s like a big sign to your friends and wotnot, saying ‘I love this person and I want to spend the rest of my life, or at least a significant portion of it, with them.’ That’s what a wedding is.”
“You could achieve the same with a big sign,” she said.
“It would be cheaper,” he conceded.
“And do you?”
“What?”
“Love me?”
He blew out his lips in mystified thought. “Well, without sounding like a bad sci-fi robot, I’d have to find out what love was first.”
“Don’t you know?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “I think I do.”
“Reassuring.”
“I know I love being with you. I love making you happy.”
There was the beginnings of a smile on her face. Smiles made such a rare appearance on Miranda’s face, they were always worth remembering.
“I love squelching my arse in our love juices,” he said and gave a wriggle.
“You’re disgusting,” she said but kissed him anyway.
6th August
“That’s it then?” said Andy.
Michael nodded and passed him the sheet.
There was indeed a carvery (albeit drizzled with a shallot and loganberry jus). There were ham sandwiches (on gluten-free harvest granary rolls with what was described as ‘rampant’ butter). There were quiches (garnished with ‘juvenile’ peppers and ‘heritage’ cheese).
“Simple fayre,” said Michael.
“But with a hint of class,” agreed Andy. “And is this…” He pulled out a sheet from the bottom of the pile on the dining table. “Is this the bill for the catering?”
Michael pulled a face and then immediately tried to hide it behind a smile.
“Nothing is too much for my intended,” he said.
“You think your intended wants a finger buffet that costs thirty-seven quid a head?”
Michael was about to try to argue the point but saw Andy was grinning.
“It’s okay,” said the archangel.
“We only get married once and we don’t want anyone complaining that they went hungry at the reception.”
“If you’re sure.”
“If they complain,” said Andy, “I’ll show them that column from last week’s Radio Times. That Michael Buerk bloke, used to read the news —”
“Oh, he does that Moral Maze programme on Radio 4,” said Michael.
Andy, who didn’t listen to anything more challenging than Heart FM, shrugged. “He said obese people are weak and we should let them die rather than being a drain on the NHS.”
“Oh, dear.”
Andy shook his head to indicate its unimportance. “I don’t think anyone really care what a has-been news reader thinks.”
Michael wasn’t so sure. “Just hope the prime minister doesn’t read it. Or our mayor. It’ll be government policy before the end of the month.”
7th August
Clovenhoof thought that finding a previously undiscovered manuscript by Shakespeare in the cellar of their local pub would draw more immediate attention and recognition. He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen but, in his mind’s eye, some sort of History and Antiquities SWAT team would swoop in, cordon off the area and declare the pub to be ‘very important indeed’ and then it would be re-opened, given a new lick of paint and be able to serve above-the-counter Lambrinis as it had in the good old days.
