Poor Vernon; decisions decisions decisions.

Poor Vernon; decisions decisions decisions.

Vernon is being pulled in many different directions at once and he feels torn… study; marriage; personal development; travel; entrepreneurship; volunteer work, oh yes and survival.  Here’s a taste of the Nonsense Filter Section 26 and 27

The Nonsense Filter the Novel.

The phone rang. Vernon got up suddenly feeling hungry and rushed for the stairs. Remembering too late the cat’s hasty descent he slipped the first few steps and made himself slow down. Shaken he got to the phone just in time.

“Whew. Hi, Hello whose there?”

“Erm, hello. My name is Dr Floot. Miles Van der Floot. Is this the number for Mr Jules? May I speak to you in Welsh?”

“Speaking” said Vernon, now able to fulfil the claim. Just managing to phrase the English Vernon continued, “Ur no, Yes it’s me, but Welsh is not something I’m fluent in.”

“Never mind I understand. We have received your completed application form at Lampeter and I understand that you’re keen to start next Semester. Do you have a research proposal? I understand you wish to explore a topic related to philosophy. I also understand that you will be paying for your part-time studies yourself. Is that right?”

“Evening Dr Floot. Yes that’s correct. Part-time, thank you yes, but I haven’t yet identified a thesis question or even a particular area of study.”

“Not to worry, sometimes it takes a year to establish the thesis direction. Good. Well I phoned to welcome you and let you know that although things tend to get going rather slowly here in West Wales, the place is run by sheep, hah aha, someone will contact you to introduce themselves as your supervisor. It might even be me in fact but that’s still being decided. Hwl fawr am nawr. Goodbye for now. ”

The irrepressible and understanding Dr Floot rang off, and Vernon sensed himself adrift in a Dutch barge somewhere between colonial Africa and the craggy rolling hills of West Wales. His hunger slowly broke down the door to his consciousness and he went into the kitchen to heat up a curry.

West Wales

West Wales

After eating, and watching a rerun of ‘Black books’, whose main character Bernard Vernon aspired to be, Vernon cleared up and phoned Nsansa.

“Iwee, mzungu you sure find a tricky time to call when you call. Aunty and Uncle are here; now I’ll have to make up someone or admit we’re no closer to marriage when they interrogate me.”

Feeling somewhat deflated Vernon said huffily, “Want me to go away?”

“No of course not” Nsansa replied, her voice softening. “By the way my physiotherapy exam went well and I’ve only got a thesis to go.”

“That’s fantastic” Vernon said guiltily, knowing he’d forgotten to pray for her as he’d promised. “You deserve it, you worked hard. I’m sorry I forgot to pray for you. Seems you didn’t need his help after all.”

“Don’t say that, anyway Aunty and Uncle prayed. When can I see you?”

“Let’s meet up and go for a walk next Tuesday. I have no after school commitments and that’s your half day isn’t it?”

There was a pause but Nsansa relied nevertheless with agreement. “Let’s drive to Cambridge and walk along the Backs.” She spoke briefly to someone, shielding the phone with her hand, and then in his direction. “Okay sweetie, see you Tuesday. I can see your new hairdo if it’s done by then. Byee.” With feigned frivolity she was gone.

Sunday tomorrow. Vernon hadn’t been to church for some time. He hoped God had found someone else to sit with. He tugged his beard in self-reproach. It wasn’t that he had anything against God. He often prayed thankfully for the beauties of nature and in remorse for his darker deeds, it was just that he had never gained an appetite for church. Perhaps he liked to talk too much; didn’t like to listen, like those rowdy women Timothy and Paul colluded against in the New Testament. Perhaps they’d been playing Bingo at the back; 72 –not a word outa you; number 3 –I’m humility, me.’



Vernon read a little of John’s gospel to cleanse his soul and went to bed with a glass of red and Fountainhead.


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