The Foot Rub

A Foot rub can led to many things not all to do with a foot

Today is a quirky wee story that sprung from A Rebel Without A Bra or was it Rebel Without A Crew?

Not sure now…

Anyway here is a wee reading from me followed by the written bit, plus a three promo to make Monday a bit more fun.

“This Legless,” she finally said. “Have you heard of him?”

“Everyone has heard of him.”

“Did you meet him?”

“I rowed a stationary beside him; never seen anyone pedal like him. That man was a genius—with so little work, he achieved so much. Apparently, it was all in the push.”

“Ooh, rub that a little bit harder . . . go on.”

“All us men took riding a stationary for granted back then. It seemed easy, just a matter of pedaling, but somehow Legless took it to a new level; according to him, it was the quality of the push that mattered.”

DBO knew nothing about stationaries except that they were old-fashioned energy providers modeled on the outdated bike, which, thanks to the lack of dirt track upkeep, were as useful as a shed without a door.

She, like all shed workers, had a moped, which was also as useless as the doorless shed. Starting it took pedaling on a grand scale and getting it to stop required jumping off. In fact, her moped hadn’t been used since she’d jumped off it in front of the shed and it had continued, knocking through the front door, smashing the only window the shed had, and disrupting the so-called “beverage corner.”

It had taken her all day to sort that mess out.

“Pushing,” said the footman, “is beyond the realm of language and is not as easy as it looks.”

“I have been told that; all men say that.”

“And when was the last time you rode a stationary?” said the footman.

“I drive a moped,” she said. “Ever tried one of those?”

“No, ma’am; they are too mechanical for the likes of us men, requiring multitasking, a talent we are apparently not qualified for . . . although I have heard starting one is a nightmare.”

She wondered if he was taking the proverbial. “You sure you’re not a robot?”

“Why, ma’am?”

“You talk like one.” She was about to say more when she noted something in his pocket. She looked closer. What is that?

Words from DBO’s gran flashed back to her: “Real footmen are silent—beware of those that speak . . .”

DBO stared at the footman. “What is that in your pocket?”

He sat back from her foot, pulling a lace hanky from his pocket; a note fluttered out.

DBO picked it up. She read it, then looked at the footman. “I thought Legless was dead.”

“That’s what they all say,” he said.

DBO looked at him.

“Those higher up,” he said, “which is pretty much everyone, in your case.”

DBO slipped her shoes on. “It says here that he is not only alive and kicking but has a plan?”

“That is the gist of it, ma’am.”

She stood up; her toes slid down to the front. She pulled an “ouch” face.

“Did warn ma’am about the quality of one’s shoe,” said the footman.

“Quality of my shoe? I work in a shed on pay so low it doesn’t exist. I can’t afford shampoo, let alone shoes; I had to wait about the recycle bins to get these.”

The footman looked at her with an I find that hard to believe look and sniffed. “Best to wait for the lubricant to be absorbed.” He looked at her. “There is time.”

“Time?” said DBO. “I have no time; the planet is relying on me to save things.”

“Yes, but without your moped, how can you get home, let alone save things?”

“You’re too smart for your own good,” she snapped. “You think you can bamboozle me with your fancy oils and talk of time.”

“Ma’am, the last thing on my mind is bamboozlement. Besides, Legless hasn’t finished sorting your moped yet. You are, after all, part of his plan.”

Cliff Hock —The Right Place Right Time

A free download

This man is not where he’s supposed to be. He’s on a space station. He’s light years away from where he should be. And he’s dead.

A quick, fun read with puzzles that keep you guessing until the end.

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