Writing for Fun
February 2019
Mr Fix It - Pete Norman
Harold slammed down the lid of the laptop and used a word he thought he had long since forgotten. He was fast running out of time and he definitely had no time for temper tantrums but he needed a break away from the computer before he could even consider continuing the search. He made a cup of coffee and stood looking out of the kitchen window while it cooled down. The sight of the chaffinches swarming on the feeder brought his pulse back down to normal and restored his faith in the world – well, his faith in everything except the infernal Internet!
He could easily have stayed and enjoyed the view for hours but duty beckoned and long before he truly wanted to he found himself walking with leaden feet through to the dining room where the computer sat, its little white eye flashing menacingly up at him. He sighed and lifted the lid.
He had spent every free moment – that is to say every moment when Margaret was either in the bath or out of the house – trawling through endless sites, each of which emblazoned his screen with multi-coloured delight, exotic promises, exotic destinations – each one more impossible than the last; each one more hideously expensive than the last; some of them dubiously lawful and some of them downright unthinkable.
He most certainly did not want to jump out of the door of a perfectly good aeroplane at 20,000 feet, or cruise to the Antarctic, or abseil down the Eiffel Tower, or drive an aggressively powerful car around Brands Hatch . . . well . . . actually he would like to do that but Margaret had never even driven an ordinary car on an ordinary road so that pleasure would just have to wait until another occasion.
He woke the computer up from its sleep and took a sip of his coffee while he tried to think of a search question he had not already tried. The first screen that he opened displayed exotic pleasures but not of the kind that Margaret would ever wish to participate in. He hurriedly cleared the screen and typed in a new search. Within seconds the search results appeared. ‘Mr Fix It.’
Now that was more like it. He clicked on the link.
‘James Watson, the ultimate Mr Fix It. Whatever your need James’ll Fix It.’
It looked a bit juvenile but he was fast running out of time and options so he quickly scanned down the page. There was the usual list of impossible, incredible and bank balance-busting suggestions but at the very bottom in huge red letters it said ‘Just click on this link and tell us what you are looking for. I’m certain we can help. James can fix anything.’ Harold clicked on the link and started to type.
* * *
James Watson looked up as the computer pinged. His pulse began to quicken as he saw that it was a caller from his website – it was the first he’d had in weeks. He opened up the message and read it avidly. He smiled. This was going to be so easy, he had just the thing – the place had only been re-opened a few weeks and with the excellent introductory offers available there was a possibility of a decent profit margin in it for him – and he was in desperate need of that at the moment.
He checked the availability and the rates and conjured up a profitable figure and then doubled it. He clicked on the ‘reply’ button and started to type.
* * *
Harold was amazed to receive a response so quickly – this must be a very efficient organisation – surely one that he could trust with such a delicate request.
When Margaret came back from Tescos he told her they were going to have a break away but he manfully refused to give in to all her attempts to discover where they were actually going to go. He did, however, give her a list of things she would need to pack for the trip, which only served to intrigue her even more.
* * *
When the big day finally arrived Harold packed the car and checked that he had everything they would need before they set off. Margaret settled into the journey and played the game: trying to guess where they were going. With each turn the car made she reviewed the situation but when they reached the M1 and began to head north she gave up the fight, there were now just too many possibilities.
‘Harold, it’s obvious to me that we are going somewhere special to celebrate our anniversary but can’t you give me even a tiny little clue as to where we’re going?’
Harold smiled, he didn’t suppose it would matter now they were on their way . . .
‘Birmingham, my love.’
Margaret paused, Birmingham was probably the least romantic place she could have imagined. She pestered her husband further but there was to be no elucidation.
It was some time later when they turned into the Hilton Birmingham Metropol. The hotel was absolutely enormous and the carpark was rammed but Harold managed to squeeze their Fiesta into a small space in the far corner.
The foyer was vast but nearly empty, however the loud buzz of people coming from a room some way off to their right suggested that was where the occupants of all the cars had settled.
They checked in and, with a small suitcase in tow, rattling across the tiled floor, they headed towards the lift. A wide corridor led off to their side and above it a large sign announced: ‘Wedding Chapel’.
Harold groaned. Margaret let out a squeal of delight.
‘Harold, they’ve got a wedding chapel. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could do something for our anniversary – you know, renew our vows or something?’
Harold’s shoulders slumped. He was hoping to keep the secret until much closer to the time.
Margaret stopped and looked at her husband. Inside her head the cylinders spun and stopped on three cherries. ‘Oh dear. Oh deary me – so this is what you had planned all along . . . and that’s why you wanted me to bring that dress with me . . . and now I’ve gone and ruined the surprise.’ She smiled. ‘I’m so sorry, Harold . . . but now we’re here do you think we might as well take a look, eh?’
Completely deflated Harold allowed himself to be dragged down the corridor and into the chapel – which was in fact far more lavish than the picture on their website suggested. He began to brighten and together they explored the room and the elaborate decorations.
‘It’s such a shame that Angela and the girls couldn’t be here to share it with us.’
Harold shook his head. ‘I had to keep it secret from you so I didn’t dare tell Angela – you know what she’s like, she would never have been able to keep it to herself.’
They walked back out to the lift. The doors opened and a girl in a very revealing outfit and a very tall, very large hairy creature stepped out. The large hairy creature leaned towards Margaret and growled. Margaret leapt backwards in surprise. The creature said, ‘Look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
‘I’m not frightened, it’s just that I never expected to see a giant monkey in a hotel.’
The girl said, ‘He’s not a monkey, he’s a Wookiee. He’s Chewbacca, aren’t you Richard?’
Chewbacca nodded.
‘That’s a strange name for a monkey.’
The girl patiently added, ‘He’s a character from Star Wars. We’re here for the Games Expo. He’s a ‘furry’ and I’m a ‘cos’.’
Margaret thought for a moment. ‘But haven’t you got the name all wrong? Surely it should be baccy not bacca – my father smoked a pipe and I know that he always called it baccy.’
The Wookiee laughed. ‘Next time I see George Lucas I’ll be sure to let him know his mistake.’
Margaret nodded in appreciation. ‘That would be nice. Thank you.’ She turned to the girl. ‘But why are you dressed up like a . . . like a . . .’
The girl smiled. ‘I’m supposed to be Princess Leia – that’s how she dresses in the film.’
Margaret snorted. ‘Then she must get very cold.’
Harold backed off. Whenever Margaret went into one she was unstoppable and it was good to see someone else on the receiving end for a change.
Then Margaret brightened, she had just learned the best secret ever and she there was no way in the world that she could hold it back. ‘Do you know that Harold and I have been married 50 years today and we’re celebrating our anniversary by re-affirming our vows in the wedding chapel in this very hotel?’
Princess Leia clapped her hands together. ‘Hey, that’s got to be the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Can we come too?’
Harold flinched, by now a group of Darth Vaders were walking through the foyer towards them followed by a couple of Storm Troopers. It was bad enough that the circus had come to town but to allow it to ruin their special day, all his painstaking efforts . . . ‘Of course you can.’ She beamed. ‘There will only be us there so it would be lovely to share it with someone else. Thank you so much.’
Harold knew when to stay quiet and he did just that – resistance was futile.
Princess Leia linked her arm through Margaret’s and said, ‘Come on then, I’ll introduce you to some of the guys.’
Harold groaned and followed on, dragging the small suitcase behind him, the tiny wheels rattling noisily on the tiles.
The room was immense and it was full to overflowing with scantily clad Princess’s and large hairy creatures of every conceivable kind.
Their own personal Princess Leia, alias Denise, then took them on a whirlwind tour of the room introducing them to a whole host of ever weirder characters, each of which sounded very normal under the makeup and the costume but some of which Harold felt very uncomfortable getting quite so close to.
Eventually he managed to drag his wife away but not before she had exchanged room and telephone numbers with Denise, who insisted on meeting up with them later so that she could help Margaret to get ready for her big occasion.
They enjoyed a spectacular afternoon tea in the Birmingham Room and Harold tried hard to erase from his mind the number which followed the pound sign on the menu. This was a special day after all – he would just have to let the credit card deal with it later . . . when he wasn’t looking.
Later in their room Harold had already put on his best suit and was admiring himself in the mirror. Margaret was still in the bathroom. He knew better than to interrupt her in mid-makeup. She popped her head around the door. ‘You’re not supposed to see me in my dress so why don’t you go downstairs and I’ll join you there shortly?’
Harold was happy to comply – that suited his plans perfectly.
He made his way down to the Wedding Chapel and there inside was quite a gathering: their daughter Angela and Martin and the girls, his brother and her sister and most of their friends. He smiled. There were some secrets even Margaret at her best had been unable to winkle out of him.
Suddenly, above the loud chatter in the room, the Wedding March started to play. Harold spun around and there, walking through the door, was a girl in a very revealing dress and a large hairy creature. Beside them was a tall youth in faded jeans and a Star Wars t-shirt and behind them the corridor was full of strange and bizarre creatures but there was no sign of Margaret at all.
The Wookiee stopped beside him and slipped its arm through his. A familiar voice said, ‘Harold? Today you can call me Chewchocolate – I don’t think I could bear the taste of tobacco.’