Interesting Adventures of Chris Columbus

When the genius who invented the 'Things to Do Today' list first
came up with the idea, he probably imagined something like: 'Do
Laundry'. 'Do Shopping'. 'Pick Up Kids'. 'Tell Husband to Start Doing
Something'. He probably never even considered 'Discover a New Country'
making an appearence.
But that was Chris Columbus for you. Ever the unexpected. On his 5th
birthday, he'd managed to make his mother cry by insisting she a fool
to put such insane candles in front of him. The 5 wax signals of his
great years on Earth kept on coming back to life when he blew them out.
He'd taken that as a personal attack on his contribution to the world.
He also blamed his mother for making a cake that was far below her
usual standard.
And so it had continued. Chris Columbus was a genius - meaning that to
other people, he was an arrogant, self-centred, not too bright pain in
the backside. When involved in a three-legged race at his school fete,
he'd presented, in full colour to the teacher, why no animal or beast
could live with three legs - it was just impractical.
If the genius who invented the 'Things to Do Today' list had known
these things about Chris, he might not have been so surprised at this
new inclusion.

The adventure of it, thought Chris, waking out of a deep sleep. The
thrill of the exploration, the excitement of the discovery. He yawned,
and climbed out of bed. Walking over to his bedside cabinet, he picked
up his dictaphone and began to speak.
" The Diary of Christopher Columbus, stardate...today. As the sun has
risen this morning," he began, opening his wardrobe and picking out his
best clothes, " It has dawned the day that I will once again set out
for the New Land. After my previous attempts failed due to
circumstances beyond my control, I will today set sail full of hope of
success." The circumstances which were beyond his control had consisted
of Biggins, his Second in Command. Both times. The first time he had
forgotten to pack the maps. The second, he had forgotten to pack
himself. That is to say, he forgot to turn up.
" If I fail to return, my dear Mrs. Whitewater, I pledge to leave you
in my will - Any clothes left in my wardrobe that will fit you; My
parrot, Arthur, who isn't coming on the journey due to ill
health-"
" Ill health, my foot!" squawked the parrot from the other side of the
room. His colourful feathers twitched with displeasure.
" Arthur!" shouted Chris, " I am trying to record my will!"
" Oh yes," nodded Arthur, " What're you going to leave me this time?
The dust what has accumulated in your drawers? Your pencil shavings?
The only ill-health I've got is being too charming!" Chris sighed,
rewound the dictaphone tape, and began his diary again.
" It's true though, isn't it?" squawked Arthur again, " Me with me
'Pretty Polly' just takes the limelight off of you, don't it?"
" Will you shut up, you stupid, hair-brained Parrot?" shouted
Chris.
" Touchy," muttered the parrot.
" What?"
" Din't say nothing."
Chris hurriedly put on his travelling clothes, picked up his
dictaphone, and tried again. When he had finally got to where he was
last time, he continued with his speech.
" For today I set out boy, but I return-"
" A wet boy-"
" ARTHUR!" screamed Chris, striding angrily over to the parrot. He
snatched the blanket from the side and covered Arthur's cage completely
with it. At last, there was no more interruptions.
" I return a man. I will return the most famous explorer of our time,
the bravest man who ever set sail on the seven seas. The-"
A voice that he knew so well echoed up to his little attic room.
" Chris! Your breakfast's ready!"

Buttoning up his shirt as he ambled down the old stairs, he could hear
the breakfast sizzling onto the plates. He could hear Mrs. Whitewater
mumbling about something, and feeding that wretched cat of hers. He
loved old Mrs. Whitewater, as he had been a lodger in her house ever
since his Mum had moved on to a better place. Brighton.
" Mrs. Whitewater?" said Chris as he entered the kitchen.
" What?" replied Mrs. Whitewater, the charm that she treated her cat
with some how escaping her.
" I asked you yesterday to call breakfast repas. If the neighbours here
you calling it breakfast they'd have a fit." He sat down at the table,
picked up his serviette (tissue) and put it neatly under his
chin.
" Fine. Your repas is ready. Whatever you call it, it's still bacon and
eggs." She waddled over to the frying pan and brought it over with a
spoon, ladeling three rashers of bacon onto Chris' plate. Chris sighed.
He knew she was trying to get some 'good food' into him, but Chris had
a very strict diet - A glass of orange juice, an apple and a slice of
toast for repas. At least, he liked to think he did. In reality, he got
bacon and eggs every morning.
" Mrs. Whitewater, I mentioned the other day that we should try eating
something a little healthier. Fruit, for instance." This suggestion was
met with derision by Mrs. Whitewater.
" Fruit?" she said. " Fruit?"
" What's wrong with fruit?" asked Chris.
" Nothing's wrong with it. It's just that it's like trying to teach you
to cook - it's all very well but in the end there's not much point to
it!"
Chris sighed, dejected. When he was the captain of his ship, he'd
order every member of the crew to eat at least one piece of fruit every
day. They'd eat&;#8230;oranges, for example. And then the English
would get a reputation for being healthy - the Orangeys, they'll call
us, he thought.
His stuck his fork into what (in this house only) was called a
'sausage'. He didn't want to know what was inside them. If he'd have
known what was inside the bacon, then he really wouldn't want to know
what was in the sausages.
Mrs. Whitewater was the best cook in town (actually, she was the only
cook in town, but she didn't bring this up at parties). But what she
might call a culinary delight, others might call a gastronomic
disaster. Although they wouldn't say it in earshot of Mrs. Whitewater,
otherwise it would be the last thing they'd say.
" I'm going to set sail for the New Land today, Mrs. Whitewater,"
Chris announced, as casually as one does when stating that their shares
are doing quite well. And to Mrs. Whitewater, it meant just as little.
Setting sail for the New Land was what Chris did on weekends in place
of going to the cinema. She'd heard it all before.
" Really? Will you be back for dinner? Only I'm putting on a bit of a
treat tonight," she said. Chris sighed heavily.
" I am this time!" he complained.
" Biggins going with you, is he?" asked Mrs. Whitewater.
" Yes."
" Make dinner for around 7 then, shall I?"
" Mrs. Whitewater!" protested Chris. " Biggins is a very dear friend
of mine. Ok, he might have his faults, but he makes up them by being a
very kind man"-
BANG!
The back door shook in it's hinges, and the noise was followed by a
very slow 'Slump' noise.
" What was that?" asked Mrs. Whitewater, getting to her feet
worriedly.
" I think it was Biggins trying to come in," said Chris. " I'll get
it."
Chris wiped his mouth with the corner of his serviette and traveresed
the kitchen to open the front door. Biggins, a portly young man with
jam-jar glasses, was laid flat out on the pavement.
" Morning, Biggins," said Chris. " Door shut again?"
The man on the floor nodded shyly.
" Sorry about that, Chris. It won't happen again," replied Biggins,
struggling to his feet.
" Yes it will," said Chris, helping him up.
" Probably, Mr. Columbus. How are you, anyway?"
" Alright," said Chris, directing Biggins inside to the warm
kitchen.
Biggins stopped abruptly when he saw Mrs. Whitewater.
The relationship that Biggins and Mrs. Whitewater held was a very cold
one. When they set eyes on each other. A cold wind would sweep into the
room (On this occasion, this was caused by the cold weather outside,
but you get my meaning). Biggins saw the Woman of Great Girth as the
end of Fun. She was the cork in his champagne bottle, stopping his
excitement bubbling over the top. They were like spider and fly, only
without all the legs. And wings.
" Mrs. Whitewater," Biggins said politely, with a nod. It was only a
small nod, as was appropriate for polite but not friendly
greeting.
" Biggins," came the reply, replete with responsive nod. Chris looked
at his two friends. He could have cut the atmosphere in that kicthen
with a knife. Even a blunt spoon would have done it.
" Right, well," he said cheerily, " Nice day for it." He clapped his
hands and rubbed them together, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
" Nice day for what?" asked Biggins, sitting at the old wooden table,
but not taking his eyes off Mrs. Whitewater for a second.
" For discovering the New Land - you haven't forgotten have you?"
asked Chris concernedly, taking the seat next to his best friend.
"&;#8230;No! 'Course not! New Land! Right&;#8230;" Biggins'
voice trailed away like cart wheel's through custard. As Mrs.
Whitewater finally relinquished her gaze, she set back to making the
breakfast, which now looked as though it would have to feed three. That
Biggins lad always amazed her. The smell of food seemed to have the
effect of a magnet on him - if he was an iron filing of course. Which
he wasn't, even though his brain capacity some times took on this
persona.
" So you've booked the ship?" said Chris, putting his tissue back
under his chin. There was a long pause, broken only by the spitting of
the sausages in the pan on the stove.
" Ship?"
" The Jolly Dodger," said Chris. " Remember? We talked about it only
yesterday."
" Oh right! That ship. The Jolly Dodger, yes of course."
" And the barrels of rum - you got the barrels of rum, didn't you?"
asked Chris, getting worried.
" Oh yes," said Biggins, now being able to guess the course of this
conversation. " Got those barrels of rum first, I did."
" Good," said Chris with a relieved sigh. " You can't go sailing
across the ocean without rum. It's traditional. After all, what'd we
sing? 'Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Bitter-Shandy'?"
" You're quite right, Sir," said Biggins, hoping that he could
remember all these things he needed to do before 11. Chris was always
good like that to Biggins. He'd remind months in advance, write out
detailed outlines of everything from the density of the wood to year of
the rum. But then, if he forget everything, as he often did, Chris
would always go over everything in a blind last minute panic. And
Biggins loved him for it.
" Right, here's your breakfast- Repas," said Mrs. Whitewater, placing
Chris' dish neatly onto the table in front of her lodger and then
rather coldly put Biggins' plate in front of their guest.
" Wreh-Pass?" said Biggins, in one of his more 'Information Acquiring'
tones. " Is that like a Bus-Pass? Only me Dad's had one for years and
he's still got this terrible photo on it. This one doesn't have any
embarrassing photos, does it?"
There was a long silence whilst two occupants of the room weighed up
the chances of two people having a child as stupid as Biggins. They
could only have pity on his children.
" No, Biggins," was all that was necessary. Anyone who knew Biggins
had also come to know this phrase. It was very useful on lots of
occasions, namely ones involving sticks of dynamite; one of Biggins'
'Ideas'; a big rock; and an even bigger rock. It had become famous in
the local parts after the 'No Biggins' summer of '88. Radical
protestors that caught onto this phrase got a bit carried away with
picket boards and lots of paint and Biggins was eventually driven out
of town - Chris had to come to the rescue to explain the real meaning
of the words. As usual.
" Where's Mr. Erm&;#8230;Wass 'is name?" asked Biggins, tucking
heartily into his bacon.
" Mr. Erm? He left a few weeks ago," explained Chris.
" No," said Biggins, in the unusual position of trying to explain
something to someone else, " I mean Mr&;#8230;.What's his name -
half deaf he was." Calling this man half-deaf was like saying a bull
got a little bit narked when it saw red.
" Oh, you mean Mr. Grey - still in bed I think," said Chris, enjoying
a long draught of orange juice. Mr. Grey, another lodger at The House
that Mrs. WhiteWater's Late Husband Built (This name was an alteration
on the original 'House that Jack Built' after a legal battle that
lasted some months. Jack had always claimed that he had built the house
and he had gone ahead and named it before anyone could say otherwise.
The truth was that Mrs. Whitewater's late husband had done more than
his fair share of the house building and he eventually won custody of
the place), was a very old man with grey hair, grey clothes, even grey
dandruff, although even Chris was not sure if this was possible. He was
the kind of old man that seemed to cough dust and breed cobwebs. He
mostly kept himself to himself and that was fine with Chris and Mrs.
Whitewater, because 'Himself' mainly consisted of his invisible pet
monkey Charlie, an old book that didn't so much gather dust as emanate
the stuff and a body that was in dire need of a deoderant.
" A wonderful man, Mr. Grey," said Mrs. Whitewater.
" I always thought so," added Biggins, trying to prise open Mrs.
Whitewater's Good Books.
" You've only met 'im once!" scolded the old woman. Biggins just
nodded and left it at that. The odds were never good of beating
Whitewater in an argument. You were more likely to get run over by a
bus that's travelling through syrup on a Go Slow day. Which Biggins has
done, on several occasions.
" Rettoni, rettoni, rasp!" came the old, crusty cough from the top of
the steps.
" There he is now," said Chris. Waiting for Mr. Grey to descend stairs
was like waiting for paint to dry. It was exciting to begin with, but
it soon got dull and by the time it actually happens, you find that
you're not all that bothered any more.
The old floorboards of the kitchen finally creaked under the
not-so-considerable weight of Mr. Grey. Biggins had given him the
nickname 'Old Man Grey' a while ago, but Whitewater had put paid to
that. He complained that he was only calling him what he was - he was
old and he was a man. But Whitewater had countered this with the
statement,
" So would you mind people calling you what you are? 'Young Stupid
Imbecile With a Penchant for Being Irratically Ignorant
Biggins'?"
The case was rested.
" Morning, Mr. Grey - how're your ears?" asked Chris, in the slow and
methodical voice that a tortoise would use if it could speak. If one
could, you'd probably get bored by the time he'd said a sentence.
" What? I haven't got an areers - I paid 'em all off last week,"
replied Grey, his huge nose wrinkling with disguist.
" Your Ears," said Chris, even more slowly and deliberately.
" Well why din't you say? They're fine." Mr. Grey was never an
ecstatically happy man. He was rarely even 'Crankey'. He preferred
grumpy and grumpy preferred him.
" Morning Sir," intoned Biggins.
" Mornings are what?" replied the old man. Chris quickly shook his
head at Biggins to prevent him going down that path - trying to get Mr.
Grey to understand what you were talking about was like trying to get a
fish to ride a bicycle. It was practically over before it had
started.
Chris had found a long time ago that it was best to ignore Mr. Grey.
If he spoke to you, then try and hold a conversation. But never even
attempt to be cheerful to him - you never knew what he'd mistake your
words for. Mrs. Whitewater had once asked him if he'd like any Fruit
Fool, but he obviously only heard the last part of it and he stormed
out. He'd once claimed that Biggins had called him a 'Stupid Old Coot'.
To this day, Biggins assures all that he was asking him to pass the
salt.
" That was lovely, Mrs. Whitewater," said Biggins, finishing off the
remaining scraps of bacon. His plate was now an artwork of black grease
and leftover fat. And then Biggins saw the cat. He tried so, so hard to
be polite and cheerful around Mrs. Whitewater, but that cat was a
menace. He was like Tom on Prozac.
It looked at him harmlessly with those big doe-eyes.
" Oh&;#8230;hello Mr. Tinkums," he murmered. As soon as Mrs.
Whitewater's back was turned, the two-faced cat leapt straight at
Biggins' throat.
" Arrrgghhh!" the poor lad screamed as his chair fell backwards to the
floor. He tried to pull Mr. Tinkums' claws out of his nice new jacket.
He yanked him away, making three large rips in the fabric. Throwing the
cat as far away as possible, Biggins screamed as the cat came back
towards him under the table. Mrs. Whitewater span back round at the
commotion. Mr. Tinkums slouched lazily out from underneath Chris' seat,
licking his 'wounds'.
" Mr. Tinkums!" cried Mrs. Whitewater. " What happened? What has he
done to you?" She looked sharply across at Biggins, whose mouth started
to open and close like a confused goldfish.
" I - it was - it&;#8230;" he moaned.
" Oh yes?" said Mrs. Whitewater. " And I suppose fish can ride bikes
now can they?" Biggins was about to answer, then he looked quickly at
Chris. Chris shook his head.
" No, they can't," he replied, standing. " But your cat is a
savage!"
" He's a savage is he? Look at that face and say that again." She
shoved the dosy face of Mr. Tinkums into Biggins' line of vision. The
cat couldn't have looked more innocent if you'd put a rosette on him.
One that said 'I'm Innocent' on it.
" But - he's - he's&;#8230;he's pretending! You saw him, didn't
you, Chris?" said Biggins, pointing at the cat like a deranged
lunatic.
Chris looked down at the floor, sadly. One thing was certain in Mrs.
Whitewater's household - if you criticise Mr. Tinkums, your next rent
bill will have magically grown three legs and a very expensive
head.
" Did you see it, Mr. Grey?" asked Chris. The old man stirred from his
reverie.
" Din't see a chuffing thing," he mumbled.
" Right, well, that's that cleared up then," said Chris brightly. He
took Biggins by the arm before he had time to protest and pulled him
out the door.
" Good day, Mrs. Whitewater. Mr. Grey. Mr. Tinkums," he said and then
he shut the door.

Outside in the breezy but sunny day, Biggins looked at his friend. He
had got used to Chris' little foibles - his hankering for world
exploration, fame and apples were all passions that he didn't share
with him. But some things still surprised him. And this was definitely
one of them.
" What happened then?" he asked.
" Then? Oh, I just said goodbye to Mrs. Whitewater," replied Chris,
strolling down the street with his hands in his pockets.
" Before that - why didn't you back me up about Mr. Tinkums?" asked
Biggins, running to keep up with Chris' pace. The streets of Victorian
london weren't the cleanest streets in the world. But this little area
near the harbour was quite pleasant. The grey cobbles reflected the
sunlight into Biggins' eyes, and the boats out at sea honked their
horns. It was just another day&;#8230;
" Sorry about that," said Chris, looking at Biggins. " There's some
things that you can only do once in Mrs. Whitewater's household. And
criticising her cat is one of them."
" Why can you only do it once?" asked Biggins, stepping lightly out of
the way of an oncoming rat.
" I think you've just found out why," said Chris, with a slight smile.
" Anyway - enough of Mrs. Whitewater. This is the biggest day of our
lives!"
" Yep," agreed Chris with a sigh. " The biggest since last
Friday."
" What happened last Friday?" asked Chris with a frown.
" Exactly. We were setting sail for the New Land, but I got sea sick
as soon as we pulled out of port," said Biggins with a dejected
shrug.
" Ah yes. I think we were thrown off the ship when-"
" When I was sick on the Captain, yes, I remember."
" Never mind, Biggins. Today is the day. No more working in the
bottle-top factory for me and you, eh?" said Chris, veritably skipping
now. Biggins smiled. That was the best bit for him. They'd both worked
in that rotten factory for nigh-on five years now and it was where they
met. They put tops on the bottles. The Bottle-Top Factory's name wasn't
cryptic. There was the odd perk to the job though - they drank one
bottle of drink each day and some days they didn't get told off for
it.

To be Continued...