Some Friday Nights
It is a tricky job to slit the cellophane on a still living pizza with a modelling knife. Jeremy could easily do it, but Beatrice actually did it for him. Sandra sometimes did. She was developing the skill but only for her CV. It was at times like this that their eyes may have met, over the counter, the sink and across the great vat of oil that is almost like the Middle East of Moray. Ménage a trois. At peak times numbers made this impossible. “Fisher’s Fish Bar” is what I wish we had called this bloody place instead of “Jeremy Fishers’”” says Jeremy, with too many inverted commas attached. Well you can’t always get what you want can you? Inside his head another “can you?” was reverberating.
When it is hot in a fish bar it is very hot, condensation pours, fans whiz, expelairs suck and swinging doors breathe in gulps of cold night air and release chunks of fried flavours into empty streets. Salt n sauce, salt n vinegar, closing time at the pub, a coach load of football fans, old ladies on a jaunt, white stretched limos full of country girls in shiny black dresses and stilettos all getting oil on their artificial nails, travellers, home late from work, greedy and bored. Customers are a rare and strange breed, almost human at times, so say the friendly fascists who write the adverts.
Everywhere in the village there are villagers, hungry for a traditional tea and dreams of Camberwick Green and Trumpton lifestyles along with being made of sponge rubber. Look closely and you will see the pores. Jeremy feeds the reckless, sees the feckless dreams and deep fries the past and lays it out for prompt delivery. They return to their massive bungalows, all of a certain length but without a great deal of height. Some go on to park cars in driveways or with up to two wheels upon the pavement thwarting the progress of the disabled. This is advanced urban warfare. Homes without a proper post code.
If you put your nose into the fish freezer or the hallowed haggis cupboard chiller it gets cold, red at the end and numb. Jeremy likes that feeling and enjoys taking stock, even when he doesn’t have to, even when he knows all is well and that the supplies are in. The cold nose thing is a treat and measure or success and sustainability, till the next Saturday. Happiness is a resilient balance of available inventory that’s correctly stored.
If you ever drive through Wipe-our-asses and I expect you will one day, beyond it , maybe just a few miles, you’ll find Jeremy Fisher. These words will come back to you, you will stop, you will buy, you will enjoy. The rich fare of the JF establishment and its garish soft drink selection, sent straight from the lemonade factory in Buckie via the cash and carry. It remains there safe and always awaits even the most lost or casual of visitors. Sleep well / eat well / live well. Travel safely, life seems like a long experience but it is actually something that passes very quickly.