Ugly Puggly 25

I came into the kitchen, yawning. ‘Whit’s that yer daeing?’

Ugly Puggly was up before me. His body slumped sideways, his eyes asked as he glanced up from scraps of paper.  ‘Calculations about light and density in roof tiles,’ he replied.

I slapped him on the shoulder. Picked up a bit of paper on the table and squinted. It was all numbers and signs. Doodles of them.  Math stuff that would have sent me scuttling towards the exit door with my Adidas school bag slung over my shoulder, dogging it, on a Tuesday afternoon. ‘You’ve no been overdosing on those algorithms again?’ I added, ‘you know yeh can trust me if you want tae talk about yer addictions.’

‘You would know?’

‘Aye, I dae know. An addiction is always something you’ve got to hide whether it’s drugs, booze, pretty women—or in the playboy’s case, men—gambling, or calculations and staying up aw night drowning yersel in shitey numbers.’

The sink was full of pots and pans and dishes from the meal the night before. I picked out a mug and rinsed it under the sink. Flicked the kettle on.

‘Nah, it’s quite simple. The most advanced civilisations harvest light as energy. That’s how when we look for intelligent life we look for cases where there’s an unaccounted for light deficit.’ He sighed as he stood up. ‘I’ll dae that. You set doon and I’ll get you some breakfast.’

‘The playboy still in his scratcher?’

‘Aye,’ he rubbed the back of his neck and puckered his lips. ‘I was thinkin duck egg and toast, but I’ve only got brown bread.’

‘Jesus, you’ve got the wrang type of shoplifter. He probably goes to Sainsbury’s. But, right enough, it’s probably cheaper buying white bread than stealing it. It’s aw shite noo.   I’ll no ask where you got the eggs. And I’m no being racist, but I’m no that keen on brown bread. We were brought up on Pride of the Empire, Mothers Pride. And if you couldnae make a piece in jam wae it, half the wains in our street would have starved. Including you.’

With outstretched hand, I swept all the bits of paper to one side of the table. Shutting my eyes, my head dropped onto my chest and I was vaguely aware of the din of running taps and the kettle boiling and the smell of toast in the grill. Breakfast was clattered down in front of me, with a bread knife to the side to sever the head of the eggs.

Ugly Puggly was leaning across the sink and looking outside. ‘Looks like rain.’

I went liberal with the salt on the eggs. ‘Fuck sake, we live in Scotland. It always rains, if you want sunshine, move South of the border and into Bearsden, where even the flowers smile with condensation.’

‘Nah, it’s no that,’ he said. ‘Just I need to start thinkin about dismantling the windmill and clearing the loft.’

I knew what he was getting at in the way he was staring at me. ‘Whit have you got in the loft?’

‘Well, there’s a lotta—’  

I held my hand up and cut him off. ‘The answers no. I work for the Council. And as yeh know we’re no allowed to dae any heavy lifting. We’re like they fitba players, or priced race horses. Anythin that can involve debilitating injury is a big no-no. Because it could affect oor whole Council career.’

‘I know that,’ he swept into the seat beside me and squeezed my knee. ‘That’s how I’m no askin yeh. How ur yeh enjoyin yer breakfast, anyway?’

I pushed his hand away. ‘Aye, it’s great. But yer no gonnae make me feel guilty. Remember Aldo, he went up into a loft and found a car door. He couldnae work out how it had got up there, because the hatch was too small. That’s aw he used to talk about at work and became a right boring bastard. And you and yer ma were hoarders, I’m bettin ye’ve got the rest of the car up there, wae Noah and his ark. And aw the animals lined up two by two—waiting and wonderin if the flood waters went doon yet after global warmings finished.’

Ugly Puggly rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. ‘Aye, you might be right. I hud a look. Yeh know whit my favourite animal is?’

‘Nah.’

‘Well, you’ll ne’er know unless you huv a look in the loft.’

I finished my toast. ‘I’m no goin up there.’

‘I never asked you to dae whit I wouldnae dae.’

‘Fuck off. How dae you know ask the playboy?’

‘Cause he’s in bed. And you urnae.’

I sipped at my tea and pushed the mug away. ‘Well, yeh can get him up. Yer just being childish.’

‘Aye, I’m ur. I mean I don’t want to poach yeh fae the Council. Where binmen that drive a truck and dae fuck all are priced assets. Obviously, there’s a thin line between yer work-life balance. One the one side you’d the Heinrich Himmler’s of the world who provided housing and lodgings, all-inclusive, the perfect agency staff at low cost to employers—who flocked to him and tried to mimic his approach—but with a high burnout rate.’

‘Aye, if the Sports’ mug fits.’ I nodded and clutched at me tea. ‘That’s sound like yer typical agency staff. I never thought there’d come a time when we’d have a middleman between yer employer and those they employ. A one-stop shop of misery. So they can screw them of all their rights and call it flexibility and progress.’

‘But on the otherside, You’ve got yer council workers,’ Ugly Puggly talked over me. ‘A whole ecosystem that has evolved for daeing fuck all. Where guys like you have reinvented yersel as philanthropists that will sometimes oblige yeh by emptying yer bins—but sometimes no, because they cannae, or willnae, because it’s against the rules they just made up. Whit kind of Trumpet dae yeh think yeh ur?  Boris Johnson?’

I picked at my teeth a pen nib he’d left lying on the table. ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘I’ll help yeh, but only if the playboy helps tae. And I’ll huv tae have a look at the ladders first. I’m no gonnae be balancing on one fuckin leg like Nellie the Elephant. Trump. Trump. Trump.’