Parables of Clippety (2) - The Cleanest Carriage

 

The train glided along, the carriage they were travelling in was at least two thirds empty, the interior, grey, flimsy and characterless, it felt almost luxurious in its cleanliness but it had a cheap, plastic aroma. Many years had passed since either woman had used public transport and they were pleasantly surprised at the relative peace and tranquillity of their journey. 

 

 

Marni opened her eyes suddenly and shook her head from side to side as if shaking something away, an unwanted thought, sleepiness or perhaps just water in her ear. ‘You know, this is so much better than I thought Clare.’

 

‘I know,’ Clare blurted out quickly, dropping her shoulders with relief, as if somehow the comment broke the meniscus of disdain which had been thickening in her head. ‘Remember the cost though, you still owe me for the seat….and you owe me for your ticket to see Hairspray next month.’

 

‘Aye, I was going to check that with you. Do you think it’s possible that you accidentally paid for a larger number of seats on this train than just two?’

 

‘No,’ said Clare, shaking her head from side to side sternly. ‘I book travel arrangements for people all the time at work, that’s part of my job and that’s just the price of it.’

 

‘But I paid for..’ Marni looked tentatively over her shoulder, lowered her voice to a whisper and continued, ‘the special stuff.’

 

‘I know you did and thank you for organising that but the price of rail travel these days is considerably higher than other types of…trips.’

 

‘I don’t think I’ve ever had a job that paid enough to enable me to travel by train.’

 

‘It’s a good thing you married rich and divorced richer then.’

 

They both laughed. Marni’s ex husband Christopher supplied them with an endless stream of jokes and stories which they draw upon with mocking indifference. Everything from his feet to his infertility, to his taste in music provided endless fodder for hilarity. Sometimes even just the opening of a story about Chris and the resulting exchange of glances was enough to make them collapse into heaps of giggles. Marni would begin, something like ‘When I was in Bulgaria with Christopher….’ Clare would lock eyes with her and they would blow raspberries from their lips and shrink into pathetic, hyperventilating corpses.

 

It was late summer and the embankments were bursting with greenery, Buddleja grew everywhere, with horn-shaped flowers arching over the embankments, mostly in wishy-washy shades of lilac, it even burst out of the otherwise barren tracks and the blackened tunnel walls. Between Stafford and Stoke there was a widespread invasion of Japanese Knotweed, growing tall and thick on the embankments but it was all nice to look at, in shades of green which were restorative to the brain.

 

Clare scrolled down through the Liverpool Football Club instagram page. The problem was, that he was just so damn perfect, his hair, beautiful clear eyes, his lofty height, that wonderful stubble he had created on his face and his warm, gregarious character which shone through in everything he did. Jurgen Klopp was too good to be true, indeed it seemed highly plausible that the guy was simply a mythological creature and that if they were to see him in real life, they would either pop like bubbles or be granted some otherworldly blessing. 

 

A brief look at his Wikipedia page confirmed his existence as a real live human, along with banal facts about his age, height, birth town, club history and personal life. In Germany he had nailed it both as a striker and a defender with the type of consistent reliability generally found in German kitchen appliances and now he was proving himself as a manager too. Germany’s loss was England’s gain. He was ours now and we were not letting him go.

 

Clare sighed heavily and her eyes glazed over as she looked out at the Holstein cattle grazing out in the fields. Marni sensed some degree of negativity from her friend’s body language. ‘What?’ she said.

 

‘What do you mean, what?’ Clare shrugged.

 

‘That big defeatist sigh. I heard it.’

 

‘I just...oh nevermind.’

 

‘Come one Clare. If you’re having doubts, I want to know. There’s no going back now, we’ve been planning this for weeks, months, years, all of our lives. We have to have confidence in ourselves, we can do this. No, we are doing this!’

 

‘It’s just the age difference I suppose.’

 

‘What age difference? He’s fifty four, we’re fifty six, we’re all the same age aren’t we?’

 

‘In terms of pure figures, yes but wealthy, successful, desirable men like him tend to want younger women, don’t they?’

 

‘Maybe the dumb ones but like men him, men of integrity, men with brains, depth, integrity, do they really just want a bit of fluff?’

 

‘Yes, I believe so, it’s a simple fact of biology. Men can keep having kids until they’re elderley, just look at Bob Monkhouse.’

 

Marni grinned. Her entire face sparkled when she smiled; pale skin contrasting with black shining eyes and her baby-fine hair, curls in shades of dark mousy brown. ‘I think you mean Des O’Connor,’ she said laughing so that her narrow feminine shoulders shook up and down.

 

‘Well whatever. Provided they can get it up, and there’s that little blue pill to help them along the way, they can fertilise an egg, whereas women like us, we are no longer fertile are we. Our eggs would float in a bowl of water.’

 

‘I think that’s a myth spread by men Clare. Their sperm gets old just like women’s eggs.’

 

Clare scratched her head so that her hair stuck out at the side. Then, feeling that something was out of place, she smoothed it down again with the palm of her hand. ‘But,’ she said, looking very serious now. ‘I thought they kept making new sperm, so they’re all freshly made. Do they not?’

 

Marni laughed. ‘Well, I guess I’m something of an expert on this, although I never really got to experience the actual fruit of the wood as you might call it. It’s true, men do continue to produce sperm but it doesn’t have the kite mark because it’s made with old tools. It’s a liquid of sorts but it’s of poor quality, the sperm may go round and round in circles,’ she gestured, making small circles with her index finger, ‘maybe swim the wrong way or possibly it’s just empty liquid with no swimmers at all. I think that’s what happened with Christopher, I think his was always like this, he duped me with faux liquid.’