Chapter 1:

Tuesday Part 1

Jolly Good, My Dear Jimothy-Kun


Why it a jolly morning, is today. My marble balcony gives view of brilliant sunny skies. Rare in Britain to see such cheery weather. Rare indeed. I'm not the only one to think so either. A flock of birds come soaring past, taking advantage of today's beauty, for a nice stroll through the white-flowered blues above.

I sit my elbow down at the top of my balustrade. My chin rests comfortably in my palm, sinking into it as though it were a chair.

A glorious, young morning indeed. Tuesday to be precise; 31st August to be even more.

What I would like to know, however, is how it can be so sunny in August. I am sure it was forecast for clouds today and—whilst not exactly cloud-free weather—is not in the slightest bit chilly. A truly peculiar day. Perhaps yet another topic to bring up with Jimothy. Actually, speaking of Jimothy I better get ready for our rendezvous. 

I walk out from my balcony and through the pattern-laced, glass door into my living room.

Inside lies a chocolate, leather couch facing a rather slim, yet large TV, propped up above a marble fireplace and sandwiched between two pitch-black bookshelves filled to the brim with all sorts of things to read. And whilst I love reading the stories on my bookshelves, they cannot be without the sound of a flickering flame, as I take a sip from my cup of tea and adjust my oval glasses sitting over my bright, blue eyes.

Indeed, the fireplace is an ingenious invention. Simply marvellous. I truly—and quite literally—tip my top hat to whoever came up with such innovation. I could not imagine the days I went without it, in my cramped apartment, back in the days of my youth.

Setting aside my love for warmth; fumbling past my couch, I bring myself to the door and walk through my house's corridor, being stopped, at a dead end, by the front door. I jumble my way to my leather boots, placed next to a welcoming mat and a tall plant pot, with a fern sticking out.

Upon dragging my feet into my shoes, I take my key chain, dangling around my raven-coloured suit's floury button, and, after fastening my suit together, I unlock the front door.

Bloom. Rays of light radiant. Yang. They cast themselves through the door; a solid shadow is brought down my hallway. Yin. Stepping out, the envies of the world are the first I spot. Tall grass and weeds; purple bells and flowers; bushes flaky and crimson. All the litter thrown on my lawn: an abandoned letter to what was.

I live in a two-story abode. The ground floor of marbled whites; the second floor of brown oak—walls planked in age from its mirroring past. A modern tale of old. All one part of the avenue I live in.

A mozzarella-coated pillar passes by; hooking my keychain back around the button of my suit, I venture the gravelly path to the pavement.

I don't have a car; I don't know how to drive, nor do I wish to learn how to. However, that aside, my neighbours are people who drive. And as such cars tuck away in rows of garages. Reds, oranges, yellows, greens. Under the sun of the rainbow, all the colours you would need.

Yes, I am not much of an outgoer. Due to this I am not very well known in my area. The only person I do know is that of Jimothy, who lives just down the block from mine.

Me and him finally have time off from our work, and thus we decided to spend it in rendezvous, for each day of the week we have off.

I make my way down the road, passing some more vibrant cars, eventually stopping to make like a chicken and cross over to the other side.

Carrying on, I bring myself around a corner and pass a streetlamp crookedly towering over the road. Soon after, I duck under some peaking branches of a berry bush and slow down at a junction in the road, looking left and right before crossing.

Upon noticing yet another corner in the road, I too spot a house of titanium white. It shines under the sun and its golden light. An oxymoron. Cold coat of snow: warm hug of fire. A ratio between two sides. I see its striped planks of pale steps rising to a roofless veranda, both surrounded by railings, brightly painted in wood.

In the headless veranda is a plastic table, set with chairs, the same coat of white as everything else. The walls in their Jenga-like tile of logs. The roof balanced like a mostly open book placed face-first. The windows blind, with ledges decorated in pots of mud-covered daisies. And the door: embossed in floral patterns, rooting from its base, and a thin window to top it off.

I close in on the house and hop, on my tiptoes, up the stairs, as the keys clatter about on the chain around my suit's button. I grip the brim of my hat as it bounces up and down in rodeo after each step I take.

Bending my left knee, as I raise my right, I spring up a few steps and latch onto the railings with my dominant hand; clasping a tight hold on my hat with my left. Swapping sides, I repeat the action and make my way up to the sky-filled, veranda's floor, continuing my sneaky prance all the way up to the door.

Straightening my suit and adjusting the zebra-striped bowtie, itching at my neck, I shake myself like a dog and knock thrice before putting my eye to the window on the door.

I hear light flops of sandals slapping at solid floor. The sound becomes louder as it reaches the door and begins to ask, in a young, clear voice:

- Who is it?

I see through the translucent glass, an enlarged eye staring down mine. Green. The shade of a splendid jade. A precious gemstone.

- Me. I answer.

- Me? Not heard of that name before. Come on in Morris, before the tea goes cold.

With the sound of locks turning, and a chain being slid, the door opens with my good friend standing in front of me.

A silver, sleeveless garment finds itself snuggly wrapped around them. Its inside a light gold and the outside stitched with grey x's and polka dots scattered all over.

- Jimothy! Nice seeing you, my good friend.

- Likewise. Jimothy says, one of their white gloves holding onto their hip like a teapot’s handle; its spout points me inside, I've got everything ready for you; it’s just in the living room.

Jumping ahead in lead, my friend directs me out from their dainty entrance into a narrow corridor lined with doors.

I look past Jimothy, turning my eyes left, as I notice a pale-skin closet—the same paint as the walls—with a silver doorknob and a small, metal lock wrapped around it. And, unlike anything else, a big, red sign, bold with letters of white, hanging from a steel bolt in the wall.

KEEP OUT! It says—decayed font in rust. Likely been there for a long time I would imagine. The lock on the doorknob does not even appear to serve its purpose. Its hook is big enough to slide right off.

- Why Jimothy, I don't quite recall seeing this sign here last time I came round. Is it new? I crouch down, eyes level with the metal pad, actually—what is the point of having such a useless lock around the door? Not as if anyone would be unable to just unhook it from the doorknob; why have it there in the first place?

- A red herring. I have enough in there to satisfy a burglar's curiosity to avert them from the real stash.

- So, what is it you have in there then? I ask, scratching my plump nose.

- Oh, what’s in there? Just a wallet with a bunch of money inside and a forged deed to an imaginary house in Antarctica.

- Quite the mouthful. Why Antarctica?

- Little way to prove a place’s fake if there’s no information to go off from.

- I suppose so. My head tilts down in thought.

- Now, how about that tea then?

- Right! I say, head springing up, I've been holding onto my morning cup for this—I do hope it is not to disappoint.

- I'm sure it'll be to your liking, my good chum. Jimothy says walking backwards through his hallway.

- When was the last time the two of us did something like this, I wonder?

- I think it's been a good year or so—give or take.

- A rare occasion! Jests I in cheer.

We turn left, Jimothy opening the door to the living room for me to enter.

A proper sleek and slim living room beholds itself to me. Couches of white, comfy in leather, with floral-patterned, silver cushions sitting neatly on top and a snow TV, similar make as my own, poised opposite. In between: a glass coffee table. A couple cookbooks are plated atop of each other, and a grey remote—cutlery in serving—is set just to their left.

In the furthest-most corner, on our left, lie two beanbags, bright white like the rest of the interior, and a bookshelf, same shade as the beanbags, filled like the bookshelves I have at home. However, it is the corner opposite that interests me most. A round, glass table stands on one egg-shell leg, two cubic chairs of glass tucked in. White frames of wood outline them, aided by flowery cushions for added comfort.

On the table I see two cups of tea placed on small plates of China, one in front of each chair, and a glass vase with a single, red tulip living inside. And too I smell a sweet smell, powdered in sugar and iced in laces. Next to the vase is a stack of dessert trays. Shortbread, cupcake, cinnamon roll, Oreo, brownie, tea cake, vanilla slice—

- Cheerio! I hurry towards the stack of confectionary in a leap of joy—dancing towards the treats in display.

My seat swirls as I hurl myself around it. Twirling around a fork I just picked up from the table, I reach for a stab at one of the cakes at the height of the tri-stack of trays. Unfortunately, I am caught by Jimothy. He had rushed up to stop my fork just before it pierced the vanilla slice's flesh: Deas ex machina.

- Could you at least wait till we both sit down? And I thought I was the one with ill manners. Remarks Jimothy.

- Well, how could I but wait—with such a flavoursome scent luring me in?

Jimothy lets go of the fork and sits down at the chair opposite me. He moves the glass vase out of the way; seems to realise he can barely see me with it in front.

- Morris, please, we may be good friends, but manners and etiquette still apply.

- And is it not that we are good friends that we can move past common etiquette and speak from straight the heart? I reach again for the vanilla slice.

- You're older than me, aren't you? Jimothy steals the slice with their fork, how can you be so immature when someone 5 whole years younger sits in front of you?

- Perhaps it is for the eldest to set the example that formality is not always needed. Leaning back on my chair I sip my cup of tea.

- Lord and gravy, do you have to argue so blindly?

- I shall argue until the cows come home, I clank my cuppa back on its plate, yet even then I may continue up till sunset.

- That implies the cows arrive before sunset.

- That implies it takes only one sunset to stop arguing.

- That's all?

- .....

- .....

Silence...
broken by laughter. We both burst into a hearty cheer, before giving each other a strong handshake over the table.

- My, oh my how long's it been my old friend?

- Been too long, been way too long. Smiles Jimothy.

- Full of holly today, aren't we?

- Why yes Morris, I say the same to you.

- Jolly good, my dear Jimothy. I cackle, my top hat nearly falling off.

- Yesterday ended a cracking show, didn't it Morris?

- Why yes, rather splendid it was. Shame to be without it, would you not say?

- Indeed, Jimothy tips forwards, elbows on table. On the bright side: season two is next year.

- Absolutely, I shall look forward to it.

- And I'll look upwards to it.

- My, my what if it sneaks up on us from below?

- Then we hide beforehand and ambush it with our strength in numbers.

- But there is only two of us.

- Well, my friend, there may only be two of us but with our solid-as-stone friendship we've got enough teamwork to be considered an army!

- Finely so! With the power of friendship, we can never be stopped.

- All for eternity!

- To our eternity!

- To your eternity!

- Correct!