Montage Trevor Maynard
Exploding watermelons create quite a sticky mess in any summer, let alone an unseasonably close and very wet one such as this. Some said it was global warming. Some said it was a natural hundred year cycle. The sum of these some seemed to agree it was definitely the prelude to an ice-age. Professor Carter, apparently on a touring lecture of Newcastle, certainly did. “Mankind could do with a good cold snap!” He told a colony of ants that, if it were possible for such creatures to be so, showed a sense of being overjoyed at the sudden shower of free vine fruit. “Glue continental Europe back to Great Britain - Make it possible to toboggan to Normandy in July – Changéons le Monde!” He puffed on his pipe, loaded his grape shot and cocked his rifle, fired. Another watermelon exploded. Deborah Colt and Maggie Winchester looked on, mustering expressions of admiration to mask their boredom; never clock-watch the clients, their Madame had told them. “Of course, back in the day,” Prof’ continued. “I was quite the ladies’ man, quite the cad, quite the… le casanova!” His hand grabbed an ample portion of Deborah’s fleshy backside, slapped it, and then he roared with too much laughter. Another watermelon splattered into the woods. Only Maggie saw the flash of anger in Deborah’s eyes, and only Deborah saw the reassurance in those of Maggie. It was a look that said; at least we know we won’t have to shag him, his kind are all talk, and only talk. “Changéons le Monde!” Jump Cut. Carter swivelled on his wooden leg, his medals and medallions clattered noisily together on his jacket above a plethora of coloured ribbon.