Terry & Dune

It was a warm summer morning at the dwelling of Terry and June. Sun shone in through the French windows overlooking the patio, illuminating the front room. June sat, comfortably reposed with her tea served in an ornate goblet, reading from her book which was a great leather bound volume of archaic appearance with the name of the scribe creeping across the cover in copper filigree, Viscount Jeffrey of House Archer. Just as she turned a page, a great wailing came from afar to assault her ears.

'Why oh why oh why…'

June looked up from her reading. 'What is it dear? I thought you would be happy this morning.'

Terry floated in, huffing, puffing and steering his bulk about the room in a red sweater with a golfing motif knitted across his generous belly. Here and there, tiny wisps of gas sputtered from junctures where his flesh had grown around the anti-gravity suspensor webbing which kept him aloft.

'I thought so too!' he spluttered, indignant.

'Well, whatever is the matter? Do you not like your book now that the postman has bought it?'

'My book!' Terry hovered red-faced by the window. 'I was really looking forward to learning all about the history of sweaters, jumpers and cardigans.'

'So what's the trouble this time, dear?'

'What's the trouble?' Terry blustered rhetorically. 'Look what they've sent me!'

June lent forward a little, peering through her spectacles as Terry held up a large book for her to see. The cover was a black and white photograph of an elderly military gentleman sporting a large Victorian-style moustache, medals arrayed across the chest of his heavily brocaded jacket. 'David Saul,' she read from the cover, 'The Life of Lord Cardigan.'

'See!' Terry spluttered. 'It's all about the Crimean war - not a solitary item of comforting knitwear within sight!'

'Oh dear.' June stifled a giggle. 'They must have got it mixed up with the one you wanted. What are you going to do?'

'I'm considering syphilis.'

'I mean about the book, silly! They've obviously sent you the wrong item.'

'Well, I suppose I'll have to nip down the post office and have it sent back.'

'In that case, there's a list of a couple of things we need for tonight, if you could pop into Tesco while you're there.'

Terry's brow darkened. 'Tonight?'

'You'd forget your own head if it weren't attached by a cluster of artificial bioflesh ligatures.' June rolled her eyes and chortled. 'You invited Mr. Johnson from the Banking Guild over for dinner, remember?'

'Oh - that's right. I did.' Terry's brow remained tenebrous as he passed over the coffee table like a smelly indoor thundercloud. 'Do you know, I really wished I hadn't.'

June tutted and spared her husband an indulgent smile. 'Well, if you will keep beating him to the final hole on the golf course…'

Groaning, Terry floated away towards the kitchen in search of the shopping list which he knew his wife would already have written out for him.

* * *

That evening, Terry was to be found floating up near the front room ceiling, peering from the window as the suns went down. He glanced to the clock on the wall - five minutes before seven - then back out across the garden. 'No sign of him yet. I do hope he isn't going to keep us waiting.'

Culinary sounds came from the kitchen, cutlery and plates arranged ready for dinner to be served. 'I'm sure he'll be here on time,' said June.

'I see the sandworms have been playing merry hell with my radishes again.' Terry sighed and vented a particularly expressive cloud of gas. 'Oh! Here we go. He's here!'

'Goodness!' June exclaimed, rushing in to finish setting the table.

Terry flipped a relay in his suit and the French windows drew slowly apart to admit their guest. Once they had reached their full extent, Mr. Johnson's vast mobile tank projected into the front room, with Mr. Johnson's huge mutated cranium just visible within the swirling orange mist. 'Good evening, Fletcher,' his voice boomed mysteriously. 'I do hope I'm on time.'

'Prompt as always, Mr. Johnson.'

'Please, we're not at the club now - call me Bernard.'

'Bernard, yes of course.' Terry tried and failed to conceal a nervous laugh. 'Please take the weight off er—' He gazed helplessly at the chair he'd just drawn back from the table, then at his guest before tossing the chair to one side. 'Please make yourself comfortable, Bernard. Dinner shall be served forthwith.'

'Hello, Mr. Johnson,' June beamed, dashing in from the kitchen with a couple of plates now piled high with food. 'It's so nice to meet you at last. Terry has told me so much about you.'

'Delighted.' Johnson's v-shaped oral flap twisted into something approximating a winning smile, providing one was familiar with the super-evolved physiognomy of a stage four Bank Manager. 'I am so looking forward to this.'

June zipped back and forth as Terry floated to his place at the other side of the table, and within moments they were ready to enjoy dinner.

'I do hope it's to your liking,' said June as she poured the wine. 'Terry and I don't often have rice, but I've tried my best.'

'Rice?' said Mr. Johnson ominously, his deep blue eyes opening and closing within the smoky depths of the tank.

'Yes, rice,' said Terry happily. 'You told me it was your favourite dish, so that's what we're having.'

'I said spice.'

'Oh dear,' said June, in preface to a further twenty-five minutes of similarly laboured misunderstandings, some of which were faintly amusing, if not on the scale proposed by the ubiquitous laugh track.

Terry had asked Mr. Johnson what was his favourite dish, but apparently he had misheard the answer because he had been concentrating on his golf!

You're welcome.