At home with the Proctors
Alan Proctor was preparing to leave his council flat in Headington for the last time. He was being taken away by large male psychiatric nurses, and removed to an asylum, where in all probability he would pass his declining years and eventually die, as one does. It was for him an inconvenience that the local health authority had closed the Oxford psychiatric ward because it meant that he would be sent to the seclusion of Inverary to convalesce.
He understood that he would be allowed occasional weekend holidays at hotspots such as Blackpool, Bournemouth and Luton. Alan was, understandably, rather dejected, not solely because he was mad and being sent to Scotland, but because his family had made it quite plain that they were poised to celebrate the end of his reign of terror. Indeed, his family had spent the morning buying the necessary props for this party.
Sally had purchased four bottles of Cava, a vat of salad cream, eggs, flour, diced bits of an unidentifiable fish and silly string. They had shredded newspaper to create homemade confetti. Even the terrier, Alfie, had been acknowledged as a potential projectile in the anticipated melee. Alan, though undeniably mad, remained firm in his censorious ways and true to his belief in law and order.
He was aware that the Oxford City Council, a model of democratic propriety and a tower of common sense, had passed new by-laws that made any form of celebration, enjoyment and general outpourings of goodwill effectively illegal. All was to be serious.
The city was being held ransom by the Health and Safety Act �" a modern day compulsory religion - and its adherents, who constituted the City Council: a collection of brief-less barristers and a bolus of failed estate agents, social workers, under-managers and corporate florists.
The Council had awarded the police, the same police who had failed to catch serial rapists in Headington, what were described as ‘discretionary powers’ �" a euphemism for an absolute state of martial law, purging harmless and innocent people. Alan reminded his family of these recent developments. He said, “You know, it’s illegal to throw or spray any foods or fluids; for example, champagne, fizzy drinks, flour, eggs, shaving foam, confetti, glitter and silly string.
“What do we do to get nicked?” Ron asked. “Just have an open bottle or can…” “Killjoy.” “You’ll be fined, Katya.” “Who by?” “The Local Authorities. My regretful duty’s to inform them.” “You’re a killjoy,” insisted Katya. “Me and the Council executive…” “You are not one and the same Alan,” interjected Sally, at last free of her pompous bully of a husband. “Hooliganism is a threat to the civilised world,” proclaimed Alan.
at which point, Ron and Stephen hurled the butchered remains of an Octopus at their deranged father, and the room descended into pandemonium.
1st Jun 2006