Time For A Romantic Interlude: “Hearts of Bile”
Sturdily–built, classically handsome Nick Griffin, Intellectual powerhouse, fearless Member of the European Parliament and thrusting, charismatic Leader of his nation’s fastest–growing political party, had spent yet another sleepless night in the simple, yet comfortable, suite of the British–owned (thank God!) Bide-A-Wee Travelodge on the outskirts of Brussels, overlooking the picturesque old industrial estate and recycling centre.
As he deflated his trusty lilo (it being his fellow MEP Andrew’s turn to have the bed this week) and folded his sleeping bag, Nick mused that this was the day. The day for his decision. A decision that could not be put off a moment longer.
From the moment he had met Claudia – her coal–black eyes meeting his across that crowded public meeting, he had been obsessed with her. The other four people present had seemingly melted away as thoughts of the sultry model, businesswoman and international humanitarian had filled his senses…
Over his simple breakfast of bacon, sausage, egg, sausage, black pudding, tomato, bacon, mushrooms, toast, fried bread, egg, black pudding, beans, hash browns, sausage, bacon, egg and toast, Nick mused that he was a man without a choice: He had to have Claudia, and her trip to Brussels this very day, on Party Business, was his opportunity.
The betrayal of his family – the simple wife who asked nothing of him so long as he earned an honest salary; the children who doted upon his wisdom and simple, homespun philosophy – would be difficult, certainly. Possibly the most difficult thing he had done since walking past that All You Can Eat buffet in Strasbourg, but he knew he owed it to himself – to his Nation, even – to form that perfect union of body and spirit with the only woman in the world who could be his perfect physical, moral and intellectual equal.
His mind made up, Nick took out his mobile phone and feverishly composed a text message to Claudia:
“Do you know the French side of the tunnel?”
Pausing, as his muscular, sinewy thumb hovered over the “Send” key, he thought he should perhaps add something to subtly mark his intentions. It needs to be, he thought, playfully coquettish and yet sophisticated: Both powerfully erotic yet supremely subtle.
Luckily, his natural genius with language and innate knowledge of the workings of the feminine mind ensured it was the work of just a few seconds to compose an additional sentence both witty and potently sensual:
“And be aware that it’s very hot over here so you don’t need to wear very much.”
Returning to his room, Nick prepared for the longed – for tryst. Sliding his best shirt and trousers out from beneath the mattress where they had been pressing overnight, he dressed with style and precision. The choice of tie – the Simpsons one? Or the one he always wore at Trafalgar Club chicken in a basket nights, with the subtle design of the Asylum Seeker being hanged? – was straightforward, as was the decision to accentuate his snakelike hips and toned waist by donning a smart cummerbund.
A liberal application of his favoured scented moisturiser “La Graisse de l’Escargot” (as he put it on he chuckled privately, once again, at the thought that he really should remember to alert the manager of his local supermarche that the staff were repeatedly putting it in the food aisle by mistake), and he was ready.
As he walked through his sun–kissed Brussels suburb, past the charming municipal incinerator and the romantic landfill receiving yard, Nick couldn’t resist the temptation to send a response to an earlier missive from the Object Of His Ardour:
“That’s a given. As is checking that your legs feel as silky as they look.”
“Good”, he thought to himself. “As playful as a teenager, yet as delicately artful as a stanza from Rimbaud…”
Nick checked his ever reliable, limited edition, Life Member’s watch. It wasn’t working, for some reason, so he looked on his phone’s clock. Just an hour more until the train arrived and they could be together – united in mutual passion.
Just enough time to…
…Nick caressed that softly oiled, olive–toned flesh: Closing his eyes and using all his, by now, fully aroused senses to drink in the feel, the alluring scent, the very essence of that teasing recipient of his emotions.
“Oh, God” he thought, “how I love kebabs…”
Next Episode: “A Woman Scorn’d”