The Neighbour

We were at our name calling best.

“You are a kleptomaniac cactus,” I shouted.

“And you are a calcified cucumber,” my neighbour yelled.

“Then why have you been standing on my left toe for the last two and a half minutes?” I demanded.

“I was merely leaning on them,” he disputed.

“You have very Leftist leanings,” I said angrily.

“What’s wrong with being left handed, even God is left-handed,” my neighbour said.

“Did he tell you that?” I asked annoyed.

“He almost did, but he didn’t have a mobile phone then,” my neighbour snapped, “ he created Adam and Eve with his left hand so that they could pluck peaches and apples with their right for making jam.”

“They landed in a jam all right,” I said snootily, “when they took a left turn to the apple orchard.”

“They must have been riding a left-hand drive golf cart,” my neighbour remarked.

“They did not play golf, they only had a deck of cards that was heavily stacked against them,” I said loftily.

“You mean God was a card sharper?” my neighbour questioned.

“I don’t know,” I snapped, “but you have been standing on my left toe for three and a half minutes now,” I said.

“You should learn to be patient and be tolerant towards Leftists,” he said.

“I don’t take advice from bums,” I replied.

“What do you want advice about?” asked my neighbour interestedly, “I give advice to all kinds of bums.”

“Do you know how many cacti one can stuff up the human backside?”

“I will have to get my calculator then, I am not good at mental maths,” my neighbour said thoughtfully.

“I always knew you were a mental case,” I said nodding my head.

“No, no that case was dismissed years ago for lack of evidence,” he replied.

“You mean it has become a cold case?” I demanded.

“Yes, the judge did catch a cold when the jury cold-shouldered him,” my neighbour said easing the pressure on my toe a bit.

“That feels better,” I said coldly.

“I always want you to feel better and better so that they don’t chuck you in a loony bin,” he chuckled.

“Don’t poke your nose into my business,” I said sourly.

“Then go oil you own machine that broke down years ago, ha! ha!”

“Don't laugh like a kleptomaniac, I know where you hide the spoons you filched from me,” I said.

“You mean you have been looking at my piggy bank!” my neighbour gasped.

“Also at the pigs that you hide in your wardrobe,” I said nastily.

“Those are the ones that whistle every hour so that I can tell the time,” he replied indignantly.

“You are sure they don’t have wings?” I asked knitting my brow thoughtfully.

“I had a couple, but they flew away,” my neighbour said despondently.

“I don’t have them,” I told him alarmed that he might blame me.

“Are you feeding them cauliflowers?” he asked suspiciously not hearing me.

“I only stock cabbage, though cauliflowers come calling on me sometimes,” I confessed.

“They call on you?”

“Yes by mobile phone,” I replied, “I’m always mobile you see.”

“But you also have flat feet,” he pointed out.

“That’s because you keep treading on them,” I replied, “you should learn to stand on your own feet.”

“I do that in my yard,” he replied haughtily.

“They don’t have much use for yards in a metric system,” I told him pointedly.

“I don’t believe in the system, it’s all computerised these days,” my neighbour sniggered.

“That’s why you still count on your fingers and toes,” I sneered.

“That’s to keep the blood circulation going,” he replied, “the doctor told me to do it before breakfast.”

“You should count them regularly to check that none of your fingers and toes goes missing,” I said.

“I don’t bother actually as I am insured against kleptomaniacs,” he replied.

“What about the demented and the deranged?” I questioned.

“I’m insured against you too,” he said stiffly, “since you refuse to go to a lunatic asylum.”

“I have turned down their invitation to inaugurate the ward for the criminally insane,” I replied with hauteur.

“But you could have been their honoured guest for a long time,” my neighbour said wistfully.

“I dislike extended vacations to historic places,” I remarked, “unless I have a guide.”

“You could ask any girl guide,” my neighbour suggested innocently.

“Do they have maps,” I asked doubtfully.

“Only for brain mapping,” he said.

“With the nightspots marked out?” I asked eagerly.

“Also the timings of the loony doctors during the waxing and waning moon,” he replied.

“You mean the loony doctors wax the moon,” I said surprised.

“Yes, when they have nothing to do after biting lunatics with hydrophobia,” my neighbour replied.

“You mean the loony doctors don’t use the stethoscope?” I asked.

“They don’t because the authorities fear that they could hang themselves with it.”

“Better to be certain than sorry,” I remarked.

“Wouldn’t look good if they had to be tied up and the water hose turned on them,” my neighbour said shaking his head.

“I don't like cold showers,” I said.

“Lunatics don’t,” my neighbour commented nodding his head, “which do you prefer the waxing or the waning moon to throw your tantrums?”

“I’m not very partial about the moon since it’s in our neighbourhood, I prefer the Crab Nebula,” I said.

“You like crabs then?” my neighbour asked.

“I do,” I replied.

“Then it must have been you who filched the crab meat from my fridge,” he said accusingly.

“I’m not a burglar,” I said offended.

“You must have swiped them the night I asked you to count the sheep before I fell asleep,” he said sternly.

“I hate counting sheep, it makes me think of muttonheads, fatheads and dolts,” I said with dislike.

“Lunatics never count straight, they always begin with subtractions,” my neighbour replied.

“I know, I have seen you do subtractions when it’s full moon.”

“I prefer the full moon, I can see where I am going when I visit your house at midnight to borrow butter and jam for next morning’s breakfast,” my neighbour said imperiously.

“Why for heaven’s sake don’t you keep butter and jam in your fridge?” I asked exasperatedly.

“I can’t because I keep the pink elephants there,” he said.

“I don’t like pink elephants because they have a habit of playing the trumpet on weekends when you least expect it,” I replied.

“Would it be better if they played the saxophone or the harmonium?” he asked.

“They should at least try,” I said, “all they would have to do is keep seven notes in their bank accounts.”

“Pennywise pound foolish,” my neighbour commented, “but what can you expect from someone who has not passed class three?”

“I certainly did,” I said defensively.

“I know you studied up to class four,” my neighbour said soothingly, “I did too before I was expelled for picking the teacher’s pocket.”

“I did not know you were so talented,” I said admiringly.

“Don’t make me blush,” he said modestly.

“Did you also throw your weight around?” I asked.

“I juggled,” he said proudly, “until I spilt the beans and split the bottom of my trousers.”

“You kept beans in your trousers?” I asked surprised.

“It’s like a nest egg,” he replied, “unless you want to make an omelette.”

“You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs and slipping on them,” I nodded.

“It tastes even better if it is a fresh nest egg and you put them all in one basket and slip on a banana peel,” my neighbour said.

“Bananas are so expensive these days that it’s difficult to go bananas,” I remarked.

“If you have trouble going bananas, you should fix an appointment with a loony doctor, they eat bananas too.”

“Must be a cannibal,” I commented.

“Yes the loony doctors eat them raw unless they roast them over a slow fire,” my neighbour said.

“Do they need to call the fire-brigade?” I asked in awe.

“Yes when they jump from the frying pan into the fire and find that the loonies got there before them,” he said.

“Lunatics must love to race with the loony doctors?” I questioned.

“Especially egg and spoon races,” my neighbour said, “and also the sack race.”

“Sack race!”

“Yes, they tie up the loony doctors in sacks and give them a cold water bath.”

“It must make their blood run cold,” I said shivering at the thought.

“Not at all, loony doctors are cold blooded like all amphibians,” my neighbour said.

“Then they must prefer living in the bottom of a well,” I remarked.

“They like bulging bottoms with deep pockets,” he said.

“Oh!”

“Stuffed full of cash,” he said, “they keep cash cows on the side too on which they cash in sometimes.”

“What are their qualifications?”

“A six-year programme during which knowledge of cooking the goose and washing dirty linen in public is a must.”

“Do they have a lot of linen?” I asked surprised.

“Of course, where do you think all those bandages come from!”

“Oh!”

“That’s because of  Damocles sword hanging over them which might leave them with a bleeding heart after the nurses give them a cold water bath followed by an enema.”

“I don’t need an enema,” I said disdainfully.

“How do you know, have you ever tried one?” he asked.

“No,” I admitted honestly.

“Then you are totally inexperienced in the finer arts, my heart bleeds for you,” he said contemptuously.

“Shall I call an ambulance from the lunatic asylum?” I asked anxiously, “or do you want me to call the fire brigade?”

“Why?” he asked annoyed.

“To do something about that bleeding heart of course,” I said earnestly.

“I always knew you were a kleptomaniac, now it turns out that you are a pyromaniac too,” my neighbour said with distaste.

“I have to keep the home fires burning,” I admitted.

“How many homes did you burn?” my neighbour asked.

“There’s the home for orphans, the home for widows and Sherlock Holmes,” I said doing a quick calculation.

“It’s detestable that you thought of Sherlock Holmes and not Dr Watson,” he said with repugnance, “next you will be forgetting the Hound of the Baskervilles!”

“I’m not fond of hot dogs because they don’t provide a leash,” I conceded.

“What you need is an enema, it always works with kleptomania, dipsomania and nymphomania,” he said thoughtfully.

“I was thinking of cactus,” I remarked.

“I’m not a calcified cactus or have any hidden in my colon,” he said hotly.

“Perhaps you prefer a dandelion up your backside?” I asked.

“No,” he said shaking his head, “it’s not my taste.”

“How about a rhododendron?” I asked enticingly.

He shook his head.

“A pumpkin?”

“Thank you, that would do the job nicely,” he said and retreated swiftly to his lair.

“I will be waiting for you with a prickly pear, a genetically modified cactus and an enema,” I called after him, “and I shall keep the home fires burning so that the enema does not get cold.”