Over The Hills And Faraway, Book 5. Paying The PiperChapter 31: Out Of Mind free porn video
7th April, 2009. Chez Butcher; Henley-on-Thames, Berkshire.
"Well, I'm glad we've sorted out the misunderstanding," Baz Butcher said.
"I couldn't understand why you turned down the invite to my wedding; we've been mates since primary school, and I considered your mum as an aunt, and a damn sight better looking one than my Aunty Flo." He drained his tumbler of whisky. "But why would your missus not only refuse the invitation but not tell you me and Sadie were getting married?"
"Pure unadulterated snobbery, Baz, that's why." I held my pint of Murphy between two hands. "She could accept me, her ever loving husband, as being from the lower classes ... a chav and an oink ... but she wasn't going to have friends or acquaintances of that ilk. She knew I would accept your invitation, and would insist she attend the wedding."
Sadie Butcher got out of her armchair and came and kissed me decorously on the cheek. "Ever since Barry and I got married I've harboured a feeling of animosity towards you, David. I thought you had moved so far from your roots you now looked down on Barry because of the line of business he was in at the time; a legitimate, if somewhat problematic, business I should add. But it turns out your wife was the culprit; it would seem you are well rid of her."
She returned to her chair, giving Baz a kiss en route, sat down and crossed her legs. She had a fine pair of pins, and I appreciated them — perhaps ogled them would be a better description.
I was in the sitting room of Baz and Sadie Butcher's house at Henley-on-Thames. The fashionable drapes, the comfortable yet modernistic furniture, and the thick Wilton carpeting, was a far cry from the lino and cheap furniture of Baz's youth. He had made it big, and most of his current success could be placed at the feet, or should that be the tyres, of Heels in Wheels, and Sadie. She was the blonde in the photograph Baz had shown me in Chelmsford after I had attended Jenny Walsh's trial.
Sadie Butcher, née Thompson, looked even better in the flesh than in the photograph of her which advertised Heels in Wheels. It had been almost seven years since Baz had shown me the photo, and she was one female who had improved with age, although improvement on perfection must be damned difficult to achieve. Of course she was more conservatively dressed than in the picture; slim, svelte, and sexy, and obviously in a strop with me when we first met earlier that day. Thankfully the contretemps had been resoved, and peace and tranquillity returned to Chez Butcher.
Baz had telephoned me the day before, inviting me to his house. I was at a loose end and was grateful for the invitation. When I arrived I was gobsmacked to find Baz married to the gorgeous blonde American girl from the publicity photographs for his hire car firm, Heels in Wheels.
With females of a calibre similar to Sadie, and with her sharp brain, whetted with a MBA from Harvard and honed by a degree in fiscal management from University College London, the small car hire firm Baz started grew into a London wide business, with a fleet of vehicles staffed by a regiment of monstrously attractive women.
Baz and Sadie then opened up the Heels in Wheels enterprise as a franchise; a network which brought them in 20% of all the franchisees' profits, plus having a contract with a motor manufacturing firm to supply vehicles to each franchise. The pair then diversified into the 'personal service industry', using the same business model, and keeping, by dexterous methods of paying their employees, the enterprise legal.
Baz and Sadie obviously adored each other, and had married as soon as Baz had divorced his Hell's Angel loving wife Bella. You may have noticed Sadie referred to her husband as Barry, which in fact is his given name. In London, or at least in those parts I am familiar with, for reasons lost in the mist of times, some male forenames are truncated in a peculiar fashion. Barry becomes Baz; Terrence /Terry becomes Tel; and Derek becomes Del. I have no idea why.
After a wonderful meal, prepared and cooked by Sadie, with a helping hand from their housekeeper Mrs Beaton, mother of Dennis the Plod, I left for home.
The Butchers, standing on the steps of their house with arms around each other, saw me off. Sadie had given me an enthusiastic kiss "to make up for my first, erroneous, opinion of you, David." She was a doll, and I envied Baz snuggling up to her of a night. With Gwen now shacked up with Jonjo Rawlins I had sod all but a pillow to embrace in bed.
I had arrived at Henley by train, and returned to Iver using the same form of transport. Even with a high performance car parked at Bourne Mansions I rarely drove. Baz agreed the Porsche was worth around £100,000, which I considered to be my nest egg, for although I also owned my apartment when the time came to sell I was legally committed to selling it back to the Trustees for not a great deal more than the price I had paid for it.
After another night in my lonely, comfortless, cenobite, celibate bed I woke feeling extremely sorry for myself. I resolved to sort out the Mister Floppy problem, and rang the number Doctor Malaki had given me for his psychiatrist colleague. Either business was slack in the psychiatry trade at the time, or Doctor Malaki's name was an open sesame, for I was given an appointment that same afternoon.
The clinic of Mr Mortimer Crippen, MD, PhD, was just around the corner from Dr. Malaki, in Devonshire Mews. The Square Mile, in the City of London, was reputed to be the richest neighbourhood in Britain, but the area surrounding Harley Street must come a close second. Clinics, for every cosmetic and therapeutic procedure known to science abounded in the immediate area, and the streets, if not actually paved with gold, were lined by high end vehicles: Rollers, Aston Martins, Bentleys, Mercs, Beemers, Porsches, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis, to name but a few.
"Yokoso." The receptionist greeted me in what I remembered as Japanese, which wasn't as unusual as you might think as she was definitely Japanese.
A petite, porcelain complexioned piece of Japanese perfection. She bowed to me, hands together, and I returned the gesture, and then dredged up the faint memory of the language remembered from all those happily squealing Japanese girls I had introduced to western culture, and an occidental todger, in York.
'Konnichiwa, ' I replied.
"You speak excellent Japanese, Mister Desmond." Her English near pitch perfect. The Japanese are renowned for their good manners and inscrutability —and their ability to keep a straight face when telling porkies.
"Mister Crippen..." she pronounced it as 'Quippen', "is looking forward to meeting you, Mister Desmond. Please go straight in." She indicated a door to the side of the reception desk. It struck me 'Crippen' was probably not the best surname for a medical man, but maybe in psychiatric circles it was a plus.
Mortimer Crippen was a most unlikely looking psychiatrist. I had expected a bearded, Middle European sounding gent in a grey suit, wearing pince nez spectacles and a worried air. But Crippen was a large, second row forward of a man, wearing a Harlequin's Rugby Club jersey, and a pair of moleskin trousers held up by a leather belt. I could imagine him having a ferret stuffed down a trousers leg. His ruddy square face was sprinkled with freckles, and his blue eyes twinkled with mischief. Flaming red, en brosse, hair gave him the appearance of a huge, genetically modified, carrot. He held out a hand, calloused as if he had grown up swinging a pickaxe.
"Hi, I'm Mortimer Crippen, but folks generally call me Mort or Cripps. Do I call you Des or Dave?"
"Des will do fine ... err ... Mort."
He pointed to a chair "Sit ye down, unless you would like to stretch out on the couch?" His accent was broad Norfolk; a dialect which a makes me giggle when I hear it, not as much as a Brummie accent makes me laugh but near enough. "The chair will do fine," I said and sat. He plonked himself down opposite me across the desk, picked up a sheet of paper and quickly scanned it.
"Omar Malaki has found nothing physical he can point to as a reason for your ED." He grinned, showing teeth like tombstones. "Does he still have that foxy Imelda as his receptionist?"
"Is she the drop dead gorgeous Venezuelan?"
He shook his head. "No, Immy was Colombian; Omar is working his way through females, in a sexual if not strictly literal sense, from every country of South America. He maintains South American females are an antidote to ED. I wouldn't disagree with him, although I find Japanese girls less assertive and more..."
"Pliable?" I suggested.
He smiled and nodded. "Yes, definitely more pliable." He gazed at me for a second. "I take it you have some knowledge of Japanese females?"
It was my turn to smile and nod.
"Right, let's get down to business," He said, leaning back in his chair. "I am not what you could call a traditional psychiatrist, although I follow Freudian practice." He gazed at me thoughtfully for a moment. "Although we are learning more of the brain's construction, and how different parts of the brain control different functions, we have no real knowledge of what Freud named 'the subconscious.' No one can point to an area of the brain and declare it to be the subconscious. My theory, which is as good as anyone else's and probably worthy of a Nobel Prize, is that the subconscious is a form of 'force field' produced by cranial activity, in a similar manner as an electric current passing through a conductor sets up a magnetic field." He showed his tombstone like teeth in a broad smile again. "In time there may be a Crippen's Right Hand Rule, to determine the direction in which the subconscious field revolves." He paused, "but enough of my airy fairy theory, and let us delve into your subconscious. I won't bore you with the science but generally the subconscious is divided into three parts..."
"Like Gaul, "I interrupted.
He shot me a wry glance. "A sense of humour..." There was a slight but telling pause. "How splendid."
I made a mental note not to make any more fatuous remarks during the rest of my visit, and he continued. "The three parts being the id, the ego and the super ego. I will explain the workings of this triumvirate in simple layman's terms, not because I don't think you could grasp the technicalities and the jargon, and the rather arcane theories expounded, but because I don't really understand them myself. Ego is considered to be one's self; - how you are perceived by others - in fact it is the character and personality presented to the world at large, and is a compromise between id and super ego. Most trick cyclists label super ego as the person's good guy and id as the bad guy, but I think it more complex than that. Id is the inquisitive member of the triumvirate. Off id goes, ferreting about in our deepest memory vaults, and from time to time will unearth a thought, an occurrence, or a recollection, which super ego considers will destabilize ego, and therefore does its best to smother the memory, or at least distract ego from learning the truth..."
"And that's the cause of my impo ... my ED? My id is in a strop with my super ego?"
"Maybe, maybe not." Mort drew in a breath. "There is also the fact that according to your brain scans you are close to being a psychopath."
"What! I'm a psycho?" My voice rose in surprise, decibels, astonishment and anger.
Mort held up a hand. "Close to being a psychopath, not actually being one, although you do possess the so-called Warrior gene, which is also a marker for psychopaths. However, as you have already demonstrated, you have a sense of humour, which no psychopath possess." He let his shattering news sink in.
"So, I'm a natural born killer, like the army trick cyclist told me?" I said.
Mort stared at me intently. "You were being treated by a psychiatrist when in the army?"
"I was a sniper, and had to be checked out to make sure I wouldn't throw a wobbly when it came to taking a shot."
"Who was the individual who examined you? I know several army psychiatrists."
"It was a bloke by the name of Livingstone."
"Not Stanley Mungo Park Livingstone? Well I'll be damned. His paper on the reasons and effects of PTSD was a turning point in the treatment of the disease." Mort sighed deeply. "Of course the poor chap eventually went off his head; which is something of an occupational hazard with psychiatrists."
This was news to me. "What happened to him?"
"Poor old Stan went berserk, and stabbed his father and mother to death. He's in a padded cell somewhere in a mental facility for the criminally insane; Rampton or Broadmoor I suppose." Mortimer shook his head "Damn shame. The man had a brilliant mind, until he went out of it."
Mort stared into space for a while, and I reflected on how cruel Captain Livingstone's parents had been to saddle him with the forename of Stanley, and to generate even more ridicule from his peers at school by adding Mungo and Park - over egging the pudding in my opinion.
For some reason the following rhyme ran through my head.
Fawn
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