Hey Mr Ganny-Man won't you ganny my banana?
The good lady sang to me as she slammed down the latest slop to come out of her naughty nelly.
Mr Ganny-Man? I beg your pardon?
Isn't that what you are now, A Ganny-Man? You know? From Ganymede? Your new office?
I glowered at her as if she had suggested growing cress in an old pair of my underpants.
Very funny. I don't think 'Ganny-Man' would be the right term for someone from Ganymede anyway.
I said quite huffily.
The good lady had been quite heavy on the Ganymede jokes of late after my surprise visit to outer space had in fact simply been a relocation to a new office on the south side of the river.
Anyway, what in the living hell is this?
I glared at the muddy green-brown slop with lay lumpenly in a glass before me.
She looked at it proudly.
This? This is "Cooked Juice." It's all the rage in Doula circles. It is super healthy and packed full of fibre and nutrients.
She smiled at me as if I had put on a dark wash correctly without asking.
Cooked Juice? Cooked... Juice? You mean soup, don't you?
She rolled her eyes heavenward at the stupidity of the testicled.
No. I mean, Cooked Juice. The juice of seven different vegetables gently cooked to break down the fibres and remove impurities.
Her eyes took on a glazed expression as she recited this.
I looked at the gloppy murk in the glass. It didn't seem to be a liquid or a solid but some in-between horror that looked like burps in material form.
But, you have just described soup?
The good lady lost her beatific smile and slammed a spoon down beside the glass of burps.
Just eat your damned juice.
She flounced away back to the cooker where more juice appeared to be cooking.
I pushed the spoon into the burps and reluctantly levered some out and into my mouth. I chewed at it manfully. It tasted like brown leaves and dirt.
My inner man-beast snarled in indignation and clawed at the chains that bound it deep within me. Feed me MEAT! I could hear it roar.
But there was no meat.
Gamely, I shovelled a couple more spoons of half decayed mulch into my mouth before skipping up and grabbing my hat.
Anyway, gotta go babychick. The new office is a bit farther afield. Have to leave earlier.
I ran before she could answer or turn around with something even more vegetably in her hands.
The bus shoogled up and down over the bumps in the road as it navigated its way through the wastelands south of the River toward Ganymede, my new office. There were no trains out this way. Just ramshackle old buses looking as if they had arrived straight from a seventies Scrapyard.
My coffee hand was straining with the effort of counteracting each bump and jiggle as the wheels bounced over the poorly maintained roads. Inwardly I thanked the gods for the iron grip my teenage strength-training had lent my right wrist.
I was deep in thought. My dormant detectivity was causing my left love-egg to twitch slightly. Dammit. I needed a new case. Something to get my teeth stuck into or I would go mad.
See all that. That used to be factories. Now there's nothing left.
Interrupted a grubby looking vagabond dressed in swathes of flammable looking nylon.
Righto.
I remarked non-comittally.
I tried not to engage the locals in communication. They were a feral lot. Besides drinking and defecating in the streets their other pastime seemed to be riding the local buses and engaging with commuters such as myself.
Aye, then the Tories closed them all down. Cos of Europe, see.
I smiled at the buffoon, whilst idly wondering if the natives this side of the river wiped their arse with toilet paper like us folk North of the river.
It was my stop. Finally.
I leapt to my feet and rang the bell, eager to escape my new commute hell.
I got off the bus and peered about with a caustic eye.
Hey BoomDawg! You over here as well now?
Called a colleague as he fell into step beside me. Did I know this guy? He was a squat, dwarven looking man who resembled a crudely moulded plasticine vagina.
A vague memory clicked into place. He looked like one of the Project Management types from the first floor.
Yeah, started last week.
I grunted as we walked to the entrance.
Me too.
Said Plasticine Vagina.
Hey, at least you made it anyway. Unlike those unlucky infrastructure bods!
I stopped and looked at him properly. My brooding detectivity springing up to attention like a Jack Russel's penis on a Tuesday morning.
Unlucky infrastructure bods? What do you mean?
Erm. Oh, nothing. Sorry, forget I said that... Please.
Plasticine Vagina tried his best not to look furtive and hurried off.
I stared after him, my senses all a quiver.
Well, well, well. Unlucky Infrastructure bods? Why would that be? It looked like I had gotten me a case...
