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Bob and the Great Grape Mystery
By: someoneisatthedoor

Bob is a mad old git. In fact, he’s more like the mad old git, the archetype. Look up the phrase ‘mad old git’, Bob’s picture, etc. He must be 85 if he’s a day because he’s got a son of retirement age, same electric eyes, same crackpot grin. Flat cap, white trousers (who wears white trousers in this day and age?), a sky blue v-neck woollen jumper, such is Bob’s typical attire. He could only be from Yorkshire. A few centuries of mild inbreeding and agricultural life lends people a strange blood. Insular and conservative, yet pathological and unpredictable.

Bob walks into his local shop.
“How’s tha doin’ big lad?” he greets one of the staff. “Now then.”
“Not bad, yourself?” comes the reply.
“Aye, aye. Can’t grumble. Well, I could, but no bugger’d listen.” Bob’s face lit up, his pearly incisors glistening in the strip lighting. A quick wheeze in and he burst into a cackle and gripped the shop steward’s forearm with both hands, as though it was so funny he might actually fall over. Further down the aisle a woman in her 20s was filling up the fridge with milk. Having overcome his fit of hysterics Bob watched for a moment as she bent and stood, her buttocks jutting provocatively. Still gripping the guy’s wrist, Bob moved his other hand up his shoulder and leaned closer. “You can give her a slap on’t ass from me.”
“I’m not with…” the lad tried to explain, but it was too late. He was off in another fit of hilarity, this time swinging his green, boxy shopping bag around and clouting a small child on the back of the head. Bob wandered off chuckling to himself. Several minutes later, now laden with a basket of miscellaneous items, he drew up to the lad looking bewildered.
“Have you got any grapes?”
“Nah, sorry, we already got the fruit n veg this morning so if there’s none out…” Bob made a final sweep of the section, adjusting his cap as he turned his head.
“Buggrit.” Possibly in defiance, but probably by accident, Bob never paid for the packet of bacon he’d put into his shopping bag instead the basket. Given his habit of carrying his own bag, the shop’s basket, and his shopping list all at once, carrying all of them in both hands, it was probably by accident. You might like to think he was a strategic genius and his fumbling inanity was simply a cover for a sly means of getting free groceries. In truth, it’s much more likely he’s just a mad old git shambling through the last few years of his life with a grin on his face but no more common sense than when he was twelve.

At the checkout, a brief fiasco ensued when he tried to pay in an obscure European currency.
“I’m sorry, but it’s been superceded by the Euro. They wouldn’t even let you pay with that in the country it’s from.” The lad tried his best to explain politely, but it took several attempts before Bob worked out the implications of this information.
“Bloody ell, ow do I get rid of them then? I can’t take em t’ post office can I?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. It’s worth a try. You could just hang on to them and hope the European Union collapses in some gigantic war, and then they might re-establish all the old currencies.”
“Aye, you’re right, that wouldn’t be so bad. I’ve got some more money here somewhere…”

Several minutes later, Bob was ready for the road. He headed down the street, narrowly avoiding a parked car with a dog barking in the back seat. A lamppost provided a brief obstacle but he circumnavigated that successfully thanks to a fortuitous altercation with a young woman driving a pushchair down the street. Good manners prevailed, Bob stood out of the way and smiled gloriously at the woman as she passed, and when he set off again the lamppost was no longer in his flight path. He stopped briefly on his way home to gaze through the window of the local hardware store at the prices of power tools he probably wasn’t legally allowed to own.
“Bloody ell. The bastards… you have to take out a mortgage to buy a bloody drill,” he muttered under his breath. He got home without further incident, and after plonking his shopping bag on the table he settled down with a cup of tea.

He’d gone to the shop to buy some grapes because he’d managed to mislay the ones he’d got a few days earlier. He distinctly remembered buying some grapes, though as he himself acknowledged, his memory was about as reliable as the expiry date on his driver’s license. For the record: he may or may not have bought the grapes, but that isn’t central to the story. The grapes are merely the trivial means by which to give a man a mission. As the ice cream sat in the shopping bag softening slightly, Bob scoured the kitchen for the grapes he was now religiously convinced he’d bought. Muttering expletives and still wearing his flat cap, he searched everywhere. At the back of one cupboard he found a casserole dish leant to him by a friend of his, a kindly old lady who liked to cook and enjoyed Bob’s eccentricity and frankness. She’d made a beef hot pot for him that he’d shamefully scoffed most of in a single night, and he’d delayed taking the dish back the next morning for fear of looking greedy. As such, it had remained in his cupboard for several weeks. His friend was too polite to explicitly ask for it back. They were of a different generation. On a shelf in the fridge he discovered several jars of mayonnaise that he certainly hadn’t paid for, and couldn’t consume before their use by date. He resolved to return the casserole dish with some mayonnaise as an apology.

Hidden beneath a blanket by the settee he discovered a biscuit tin. His pulse quickened, could this be it? Sadly no, all the tin contained was more of the now defunct currency he’d tried to use in the shop. It was only then that he realised he’d never been to that country, and spent several minutes sat on the settee trying to work out how they’d come into his possession.
“Bloody… Nineteen fifty five… no, fifty seven… But that were Croatia, not…” he muttered. Without coming to any firm conclusions, he recalled the missing grapes and went back to looking round his kitchen. He scanned the counter top, his gaze settling on the microwave his daughter had bought him for Christmas one year that he never used because “I don’t trust any technology that t’TV won’t explain ‘ow it works.” They could be in there. He had often found bags of carrots or bars of chocolate intended for the cupboard on the wall inside the microwave, often weeks after he’d bought them. He strode up to it and peered inside. The webbed plastic on the glass door, and the fact that it wasn’t plugged in, made it impossible to tell what, if anything, was inside.

Bob pushed the button that appeared to open the door. Nothing happened. He pushed it again. Still nothing. He pulled at the edge of the door with his fingertips, it wouldn’t budge. Off he set to the cupboard under the stairs and a rusting toolkit he’d borrowed from a shop he used to work for but never returned. Inevitably, what he was looking for was buried between all the other items. Out came a wrench, a lump hammer, a tin opener, a hair comb, several spoons, a small hacksaw, some blades for an angle grinder, a tool Bob had never owned or used, and a large penknife. Finally, he located a large, thick, red handled screwdriver. He returned to the rogue appliance, jammed the head of the screwdriver into the gap between the door and the frame, and heaved. The door flung open, striking Bob in the chest because he’d stood on the side with the hinges. The screwdriver and the catch mechanism for the door flew across the room, narrowly missing the TV in the opposite corner. Bob cursed, holding his ribs.
“Bastard.” There were no grapes in the microwave.

Pushing the door closed again, Bob sighed and sat down at the round wooden table that sat where his kitchen became his living room. He glanced across and saw a note he’d written to himself. The lone word ‘bank’ was scrawled in black marker. A small pile of banking paraphernalia – his chequebook, paying in book, cashcard and statement – were bundled up inside a rubber band next to the note.
“You silly bugger,” he muttered to himself and then got up, retrieved his cap and coat from the back of the door, and set off. He was a good three minutes down the street before he realised he’d left the banking stuff back at home for a second time. After tramping all the way back he finally got to the bank. The pretty girl behind the counter smiled at him. He lost concentration for a moment as he reminisced about a girl he’d once known in Harrogate with a taste for figs and boat rides.
“Can I help you?” She smiled again.
“Oh, aye, yes, er…” He looked at the items in his hand, then back at her. “I’ve gotta pay this TV license so I need to withdraw the amount it says on this letter.”
Should I just take a quick look at that?” She slid it under the glass and glanced at the form. “It says it’s a hundred and thirty five pounds fifty.”
“’Undred and thirty five pound… You’re joking, it’s not that much is it?”
“That’s what it says I’m afraid.”
“Alright then, an ‘undred and thirty whatever.” He handed over his card, paying in book, cheque book and statement. Not knowing which items they actually needed for him to withdraw money, he generally took along all he could find, just to be on the safe side.
“I’m sorry, it’s saying you don’t can’t withdraw that much.”
“What?”
“The computer’s saying you can’t withdraw beyond the balance in your account. I can arrange for an overdraft but it’ll take three to five working days.”
“But I paid in several hundred in cheques over a week ago. It must be in there.”
“Let me just check.” She tapped on the keyboard. “It says here there are six hundred and seventy eight pounds in cheques waiting to clear that were paid in on the eleventh, which was a Monday.”
“But I paid them in on a Friday, then there was all last week, now it’s Monday, the money should be in me account. I don’t understand. I paid them in on a Friday.”
“Yes, but because you paid them in on a Friday they won’t have been processed until the Monday, because we don’t process them until the next working day.”
“But you’re open Saturday, it says on the door.”
“We are, but Saturday isn’t counted as a working day.”
“Why not, if you work on a Saturday?”
“I don’t know, but Saturday isn’t counted as a working day.”
“But you’ve still had five working days, it says five working days for a cheque.”
“Yes, but if we didn’t process it until Monday, then it’s five working days from then?”
“So it’s six working days?”
“No, it’s five working days to clear. It’s just that we don’t usually process the cheques until the day after they’re deposited, so one day to process, five days to clear.”
“So it’s six days?”
“Yes.”
“But you said I’d paid em in on’t eighth. It’s now the eighteenth. That’s ten days. Not five working days. And it’ll be eleven days before I can get me money.”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“So what do I do about me TV license?”
“If an inspector turns up then don’t let them into your house.”
“Oh… I suppose I’ll come back tomorrow then.”
“You can also get your money from the cashpoint outside. Withdrawals are free anywhere in the UK.”
“Well of course they bloody are, it’s my money. What kind of a bloody bank advertises that it gives you your own money for free? Bunch of bastards.” These last two sentences Bob grumbled to himself as he made for the door, banging it shut behind him in an act of defiance.

Muttering his way down the street he headed home, content that he’d done his best to achieve what he had to do that day. Forgetting all about the grapes for a while, he resolved to have a cup of tea, see if there was any cricket on TV for him to swear at and then maybe a few chocolate biscuits. This peaceful, wonderful dream was shattered when three drunken kids, a lanky boy with a nose stud and two girls dressed in urban streetwear, despite living in rural Yorkshire, accosted him drunkenly.
“Look at that old bastard. Look at the fucker. He’s hilarious. Who do you think you are with that hat on?”
“What the…?” Bob grunted under his breath. The kids lurched across the street towards him, spilling their fluorescent coloured alcopops.
“Who the fuck wears a shirt like that anymore. You’re a sad old twat, that’s what you are.”
“What the…?” Bob said slightly more loudly, unsure of what the children wanted or how he could make them leave him in peace.
“You old fucker. Just walking the streets like everyone else.”
“Give me a cigarette you old wanker.”
“What the…? I haven’t got any cigarettes. I don’t smoke. Go away.”
“Aw go on, give us a couple of cigarettes. I know you got some.”
“I haven’t got any bloody cigarettes now piss off.” He shook a fist at them and they mocked backing off, scared. The lad then stepped forward aggressively.
“Are you gonna hit me old man, is that it? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I don’t want to hit anyone, I just want to go home now leave me alone.”
“I think he’s looking for a smack in’t he?” The lad turned and gesticulated at the girl who voiced their approval.
“Now why don’t you just bugger off and leave me –“ the sentence never got finished. Bob had stepped forward to confront the lad but had tripped on his shoelace sending him into an inescapable lunge. As the lad turned back from the jeering girls, Bob’s shoulder cracked him clean in the nose, knocking him from his feet and causing a splurt of blood to cascade down his face. The girls were silenced, the boy groaned. Bob ran. Well, as much as a man in his eighties with a taste for ale can run.

Bob’s shoelaces had been too long because he’d bought the wrong length. The lady in the shop hadn’t noticed that he’s bought laces for hiking boots when he was clearly nothing of the sort. As a consequence, Bob had spent three days tying the laces in increasingly complex knots trying to render his shoes safe to walk in. One of these knots had come undone in the bank when Bob had been tramping about trying to work out why they wouldn’t give him his money. He’d covered most of the distance home from the bank without the laces impeding him, but they’d come to his rescue at the vital moment. Bob would never realise this. By this time he’d got home, sat down, grumped a bit about how he didn’t understand kids and drank most of a cup of tea. Later that evening he’d pick up the cardboard box for a chocolate gateau he’d had some nights previously. He’d thought it was empty, and was going to throw it away but noticed it had a weight to it. Inside he found a bag of white seedless grapes.

Article Source: http://journal.ilovephilosophy.com

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