Larry and Mick at Procrastination

 

“Welcome to Procrastination!,” said the chap with a clipboard, standing outside the airport.

 

“Thanks,” said Larry. “Can you tell me how to get to the hotel?”

 

“Certainly,” said Mr Clipboard. “But first, howzabout a game of I-Spy?”

 

“I don’t like I-Spy.”

 

“Tennis?”

 

“I don’t have my tennis racquet.”

 

“I have spares.”

 

“I am allergic to tennis balls.”

 

“I have hypoallergenic ones.”

 

“I have a phobia of anything with strings.”

 

“Cricket?”

 

“That’s a bit stereotypical.”

 

“We could discuss the weather.”

 

“I refer you to my previous comment.”

 

“Pilates?”

 

“Can you just tell me how to get to the hotel?”

 

Mr Clipboard pointed at the taxi rank.

 

* * *

 

“Where have you been, Mick?”

 

“Having a wee.”

 

“Oh yes, I forgot.”

 

“Shall we be off then?”

 

“Rightey-ho.”

 

• * *

They got into the taxi, which pulled away from the taxi rank, but not before the taxi driver played three levels of Candy Crush on his phone, ate a cheese sandwich, trimmed his nasal hair, adjusted his socks and fed kale to the guinea pig he kept in the glove box.

 

“Where did you want to go again?,” said Mr Cab Driver (whose name tag said, ‘L. Kravitz’).

 

“The hotel,” said Larry.

 

“Which hotel?”

 

“The form just says, ‘The Hotel’.”

 

“Oh yes, that will be the only hotel in Procrastination.”

 

“So why did you ask?”

 

“Something to do.”

 

After a fifty-five minute journey that should have take five minutes, they arrived at The Hotel. It was, to say the least, a bit of a fixer upper - unfinished paintwork, dirty windows and a front door that was hanging off its hinges.

 

“This is nice,” said Larry.

 

“Lovely,” said Mick.

 

After waiting for Mr Cab Driver to finish scraping wax out of his ears, Larry paid him and walked up to the entrance to The Hotel. Mick pushed the door and it fell off. They shrugged and walked through.

 

There was no one in Reception.

 

Except for the cat on the counter.

 

And the sleeping lady.

 

The sleeping lady (whose name tag said, ‘A.U. Rora’) was sprawled over the pile of coats in the corner, and only woke when the cat spotted the potential clients, leapt off the counter and nudged her face with its paw.

 

“I’m sorry, I was a bit tired,” said A.U. Rora, but otherwise she didn’t move. “How may I help you today?”

 

“Can we have the keys to our room please?,” said Larry.

 

“Certainly, just give me a minute.”

 

Then A.U. Rora fell back to sleep.

 

Larry and Mick walked over to the counter, whereupon the cat returned, then they rummaged around behind said counter and located their room key. They found their way to their room, sat on the unmade bed and took in the paint peeling off the walls, the dripping tap on the cracked sink, the dirty carpet and the single swinging lightbulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling.

 

“I don’t much rate Procrastination,” said Mick.

 

“Nor me,” said Larry.

 

“Shall we go home?,” said Mick.

 

“Yes,” said Larry. “But first, let me just pick the pea skin from between my teeth, adjust my hat, have a wee, text my mum, eat some crisps, think about mid-nineteenth century East European politics, write a haiku on a napkin, scratch my elbows, Go Compare, place an online bet, do an impression of Joe Pasquale, sing a Justin Bieber song, tighten the screws on my glasses, fall over, get up again, smoke a pipe and clean my teeth.”

 

“Or we could just go home,” suggested Mick.

 

“Why the heck not?,” said Larry.

 

< fin >