AND THEREBY HANGS A TALE (Continued)
The Daydreamer Believer
He powered the scarlet Ferrari down the Mulsanne straight. One of a select band of
drivers who took the curve absolutely flat out no lifting off for him. Perfection was
what had got him to the top. A quick jink exquisitely timed took him passed the danger.
In the distance a klaxon sounded. A klaxon sounded? The lights had changed to green and
the car behind was anxious to be on his journey. Timothy sighed let the handbrake off on
his ancient 1100 and slowly pulled away from the lights.
In truth he was on the way to the supermarket first left, second right and then first
right would bring him to their car park.
As he turned right he saw the suspect van ahead. Tucking himself in behind his quarry he
followed at a safe distance as the white nondescript van with the tell tale slogan
Chelsea TID written large in the dirt on the back doors wove its way through the maze of
a newly built housing estate. Eventually the van slowed and pulled in at a site office.
He cruised passed and slowed to a stop. He looked at his watch he had been following the
suspect van for forty-five minutes. Following the suspect van? He had been on his way to
Tesco?s now he was lost on this bloody housing estate.
Singing Pete Seager?s ?Little Boxes? to himself he set about finding his way out of the
labyrinth.
The helicopter slowly descended its downward pointing searchlight made it look like a
spaceship hovering over the Glastonbury Festival. Suddenly a huge roar thundered from
the gathered multitude as the legendary folk singer simply known as Tim alighted from
the helicopter and, surrounded by bodyguards, made his way with guitar in hand to the
giant powerfully lit stage. An expectant hush fell on the vast crowd. The two red lights
glowed warning him not to start singing yet. Two red lights? He jammed his foot hard on
the brake and skidded to a halt mere inches from the back of a flat back lorry.
Now where the hell was he? The lorry had stopped at a ?Give Way? sign as the lorry moved
off he could see if he turned left it was fifteen miles back to town. Good grief it was
only two miles from his house to Tesco?s. He thought about the white van and suddenly he
realised ?Chelsea TID? meant ?Chelsea ?til I die?. Disgraceful how they had treated
Claudio Ranieri, he thought, they should be ashamed of themselves.
Driving his Aston Martin quickly but safely fabled football manager Timothy Brown headed
towards his latest challenge. He had been brought in by Chelsea to replace Jose Mourinho
in a desperate attempt to salvage their tarnished reputation and this was to be his
first game in charge. Using all his legendary man management skills coupled with a
subtle blend of youth and experience and both English and foreign players he had managed
to satisfy the Board and please the fans. Mind you he thought with the fortune they?re
paying me I?ve got to pull out all the stops. He smiled confidently, he was at the top
of his profession, and if he couldn?t do it no one could. He arrived at the ground and
slowed as he entered the car park and edged his way through the crowd heading towards
the turnstiles.
Heading towards the turnstiles? With a sigh of relief he realised he was on Tesco?s
car park and the crowds were streaming towards the entrance and the trolley bays. How
did that happen? That was a bit of luck and it only took forty minutes. It was only a
five minute drive from his house to the supermarket but so far the trip had taken him
two hours and five minutes.
As he headed towards the trolley bay he spotted the tall sinister man. T froze and said
to himself. ?So we meet again my friend?. He had no fear of being recognized the plastic
surgery he had endured plus his mastery of disguise would take care of that. T, M.I.5?s
top agent had been waiting this chance for quite some time and he was not going to risk
losing his man by acting to soon. He needed to know what he was doing here and if he was
meeting any of his contacts new or known. He followed his man discreetly round the store
pausing here and there to appear to be shopping normally. Quite suddenly the man headed
towards the checkouts he moved to intercept him. The man called out to the girl on the
checkout ?Fire call I?ll be back later.?
Fire call I?ll be back later? Tim looked in his trolley what the hell had he got in there.
Cat food, they hadn?t got a cat. Nappies, their youngest was sixteen. Steradent, they
both had their own teeth. Pipe cleaners, he didn?t smoke. Sheepishly he went round and
put the contents of his trolley back on the shelves.
Monsieur Tim cast his eye aloofly over the supermarket?s shelves. It was a nuisance but
the challenge had been made and someone had to teach Gordon Ramsey a lesson. Gordon
Ramsey had three Michelin stars but there again so did Monsieur Tim and Tim had been
awarded all three stars thirty years ago before his nineteenth birthday and he had held
them ever since. It was necessary for someone to show Mr Ramsey that you could teach and
run a brigade of chefs without all the insults, shouting and bad language and he, the
world?s finest chef, was the man to do it. He had only the one restaurant which was
called ?With a Twist? in recognition of his genius for taking classical recipes and
other chef?s signature dishes and improving them with a twist. He would prove clear
concise instructions coolly and calmly given along with faultless demonstration of the
various techniques required would accomplish far more than Mr Ramsey could hope to
achieve in his wildest dreams. He heard a voice say that will be Two hundred and fifty
four pounds please.
Two hundred and fifty four pounds? What the hell had he bought? Hastily he produced his
credit card and then signed for his purchases still not sure of what he had bought. As
he put his purchases in the car boot he realised the sheer expense of the items he
recognised but then again there many things he had never seen before and hadn?t got a
clue what to do with. It was going to be a rough old evening. He turned on the car radio
just as a plug was being made for the American President?s interview by Jeremy Paxman.
His chauffeur driven Rolls Royce cruised to a stop outside the BBC?s recording studio.
As usual these days his services were required to protect the President from Jeremy
Paxman ruthless questioning. His language skills, insight and sensitive understanding
of world affairs meant he was frequently called in to ?ride shot gun? as the Americans
called it. But his services were called on by all senior political figures not just
Americans. Jeremy hated it, he was not used to having to deal with a superior intellect.
But he had a healthy respect for the formidable language skills of Sir Timothy Brown.
?Where on earth have you been??
Where on earth have I been? He looked round. ?What the hell I?m back in my own driveway.?
He looked at his watch he?d been out for just over five hours. This was going to take
some explaining especially when Mrs Brown saw what was in the boot. ?I had trouble with
the car?, he said, ?and the supermarket was crowded?, he added sheepishly. ?What do mean
supermarket I did the shopping yesterday. You went out to go for your dental check-up.?