CUCKOO SPIT - CHAPTER ONE

Almustus Fudge was a man, but only in the loosest sense of the word.

This was a feeling that was capable of coming to him at any - and multiple - points during his day, but never more so than when he was talking to his wife. She, Loretta Fudge, had grown up with a very distinct idea of the man that she was going to be married to, and was determined to chip away at Almustus until he resembled exactly the image that had been nestled in her mind for the last forty years. Even if, as it were, she had started out with completely the wrong kind of stone.

It was not that she was an unpleasant woman. Rather, she was simply a product of a portion of society which creates and promotes competition like no other, that drives individuals to better themselves; not for their own enjoyment or personal satisfaction, but purely to have one up on the folk next door. Loretta was profoundly middle class. Everything in her day revolved around her constant drive to make Almustus better;

'I see you've parted your hair to the left today. I really think you should part it to the right. To the right is so much better.'

Or;

'That shirt? Hmmm. No, I think the one with the duck egg pinstripes and mitred cuffs. The one with the duck egg pinstripes and mitred cuffs is so much better.'

And so on.

No, it wasn't that Loretta Fudge was an unpleasant woman. She did, absolutely, want the best for Almustus. She just happened to show it by making his life utterly miserable.

On this particular morning, Almustus came down the stairs of their semi-detached suburban home for the second time - the first had been before changing his tie ('that's better') and sat down to his breakfast. His surroundings were the very picture of middle-class respectability. The kitchen was immaculate, as it always was, and economically sprinkled with the kind of homely tat that a person trying to achieve the picture of middle-class respectability might, indeed, sprinkle. No photographs or artwork adorned the fridge; Almustus and Loretta were without children. A sustained period of trying had proved fruitless and, after a handful of visits to the doctor, Luscetta had come home one evening and without making eye contact informed him that the matter was now closed. Having convincingly pretended not to have seen the single tear running down her cheek, Almustus thought it best to leave it at that.

Before him at the table was his standard breakfast of porridge made with water ('so much better for you than made with milk') and one boiled egg. He ate quietly, quickly without rushing, and when he was finished wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin before folding it onto the plate in front of him. Luscetta had returned upstairs to apply her makeup and complete the rest of a routine that Almustus had never completely understood.

He stood and walked his plate to the washing up bowl, where he took a small pleasure in watching it slip slowly but inevitably beneath the bubbly skin. Walking out of the kitchen and into the hallway, he took a moment in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the wall just inside the front door. He looked himself in the eye and paused, before lifting his gaze and allowing it to drift slowly from head to foot.

He was above average height; not remarkably so, but in a manner which when combined with his thin arms and legs gave him a sense of not quite being in proportion. His suit jacket seemed to be both too long in the body and too short in the sleeve. Despite the best efforts of his mother, schoolteachers, and most recently Loretta, he stood with a slight stoop. The combination of these attributes served to give the casual observer the impression of adolescent ungainliness, as if somebody were not quite holding his strings at full tension. Facially he was distinctly unremarkable. Brown eyes (not hazel, auburn, amber or chestnut) looked out from under a head of hair which could perhaps threaten to one day grow to be unkempt, were it not so rigorously kept in check by fortnightly visits to the barber and a fingertip - any more would, he felt, be flamboyant - of Breelcreem. It was not that Almustus was a vain man, but simply that he had been raised to place great value in being at all times neat and tidy. His nose was ever so slightly prominent; just stopping short of adding a suggestion of character. His lips were thin and even at rest appeared slightly pursed, so that he often had the appearance of disapproving of whatever it was upon which he was looking. In this particular instance he met his reflection with neither approval or disapproval - in fact, his overriding feeling was one of boredom. Boredom was, in his experience, the appropriate response. It meant that he was sufficiently presentable to proceed out into the world.

He took his briefcase from its place next to the shoe rack (fourteen pairs of Loretta's; two of his own) and enjoyed the familiar weight in his hand. It didn't actually contain anything of any great importance - his wallet, an empty jotter, a selection of cheap pens and a spare tie in case of lunch catastrophe - but he considered it an accessory essential to the image that he was expected to convey. He made his way to the bottom of the stairs and spoke towards the light spilling out from their bedroom doorway. Loretta had a habit of keeping the curtains closed until she had completed her morning routine.

'I'm leaving for work now, dear.'

The silhouette of a curlered head appeared at the landing.

'Very good, dear. Did you finish your breakfast?'

'Yes, dear.'

'Good. Have you got your briefcase?'

Almustus' eyes momentarily flickered down at the briefcase clearly visible in his right hand.

'Yes, dear.'

'Good. And you don't need your umbrella?'

It hadn't rained in two weeks. It was June.

'No, dear.'

'Good. Well, I hope you have a nice day. I thought we could have casserole tonight. How does that sound? Casserole?'

'Again?'

'Pardon, dear?'

'Yes, dear. Casserole sounds nice.'

'Good.' There really was no way to know if she had heard him. 'Casserole it is. Have a nice day.'

'Thank you, dear. Goodbye'. He turned towards the door.

'Almustus!' He paused.

'Yes, dear?'

'Aren't you going to wish me a nice day too?'

'Of course, dear. I'm sorry. Have a nice day.'

'That's better!'