Theodore washed up on my doorstep last night, haggard from overstimulation. I know that look all too well. Now that he's retired, it turns out he's been bitten by a bug to cycle around the world. This is of course preposterous. He can't even cycle to Croydon without requiring medical intervention. The documentary on the young Scottish record holder, combined with recent Olympic fever, seems to have kindled his competitive spirit.
"I have had this bicycle specially built," were his first words after a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and 'affectionate' squeeze of my bosom, met with my usual fortitude. It looked remarkably like what my postman rides, complete with a sack of mail in the front basket, which upon closer inspection proved to be rejection letters from sponsors he'd approached. They were dismissed as fools. Financial assistance had finally been pried out of a Soho establishment he frequents, in exchange for plain brown parcels from certain districts he was to be passing through to recharge his batteries.
I have long been the preferred acoustical backsplash for my former husband, the erstwhile female companions he contracts proving not just deficient in masking their lack of interest beyond the task at hand, but occasionally hostile. More than once I have been hastily recruited to calm down their "personal trainers" arriving in their flashy cars, somewhat stretching the remit of a Samaritan.
"The Guinness people require extensive documentation," he informed me upon settling in the bathtub fully clothed. He sprinkled washing powder on his rumpled suit and looked pointedly at the shower head until I turned it on, then announced that I could be of service by donating my organisational skills to the cause.
I told him that this was impossible, though technically it wasn't: the Samaritans have a generous policy on sabbaticals. The thought of accompanying this man for month after month on an unlikely journey through countries with regimes even more oppressive than him filled me with a kind of fascinated horror.
He appeared not to have heard me and launched into a shopping list for the expedition, clearly expecting dictation. Humouring him is the path of least resistance. As he droned on, muffled by the sound of the shower and competing with the radio tuned to The Archers so he could veer off topic into his usual diatribe against the BBC for ignoring his monograph on spile troshing, I began to grudgingly warm to the idea of an adventure.
My conditions were nonnegotiable:
- My job description was not to include stress relief. I would under no account provide massage or procure masseurs advertising in phone boxes or the local equivalent.
- No cheating. I would not be party to hoodwinking the Guinness people, who despite the sad decline of publishing standards continue to be an inspiration.
- I would not be handling any packages addressed to Soho.
He waved his hand in dismissive assent, not interested in the details, then promptly fell asleep in the tub. I turned off the tap. It was the least I could do. I had my water bill to think about.
