Copernican Principle      The scribblings of an insignificant man

​  The paved garden area was not much bigger than his front room and was full of different coloured wheelie bins. From the left side the smell of cannabis drifted across and from his right was a muffled sound of Islamic prayers. Barnsley was more cosmopolitan then he thought.

  The garden was enclosed by an old wooden fence, patched in places with pieces of reclaimed board and chicken wire. To the left side a door was shoved open and a lady appeared over the fence. At first glance her excessively painted face appeared to be in it’s thirties but as she lit her cigarette through wrinkly, pouted, bright red lips, Gordon’s estimate of her age jumped at least a decade. He caught her eye.

  “Ayup”, she screeched cheerily, “ow’s thee?”

  Gordon’s experience of England and it’s language stretched over an unfathomable number of years. Momentarily lost in history he replied, “Good morrow fair mistress” and he lowered his head in greeting.

  “Polish then?” and her voice now slowed and grew a little louder, “Welcome t’ tarn” Her smile revealed a perfect set of ill fitting teeth, which explained the slight lisp.

  “Ah no”, Gordon snapped back to 2016. “English, just new to Barnsley”

  “Ooooooh, ya sound very posh-like”, her smile grew as she looked appraisingly at Gordon. In his worn leather jacket over t-shirt and jeans, he felt suddenly self-conscious. “Where ya from sweetie?”

  Gordon’s identity was new, as it was for every visit, and thoroughly memorised. Furnished with passport and all relevant papers, his background had been created to help him blend in, though a perfect history might equally raise suspicion. So his thoroughly British background was supplemented with a couple of curve balls.

  “The name’s Gordon and I’m from London”

  She giggled and waved “Ooooh, what ya like? I’m Mandy. Where ya really from?”

  Slowly, Gordon replied, assuming she misheard him the first time “London”

  Her giggle now turned to mild annoyance, “Noooo, I mean, where was ya born then?”

  This was becoming tedious, “London”, he replied once more.

  “Nooooo”, her frustration was growing too, “Where was ya REALLY born?”

  The penny finally dropped with Gordon as he realised his tan, which was his natural shade, could be causing some confusion, “I’m English”, he stated this time, “born in London”.

  Her smile returned, but she clearly wasn’t convinced, “Noooooo,” her screechy whine was now grating on Gordon’s nerves, “where was ya parents from?”

  He knew a response of ‘London’ again would only protract the agony, so this time he fully elaborated. “Both my parents are English, born in London, but of my four Grandparents, they were English, Irish, Welsh and Portuguese”.

  “Oh well, now then.” Mandy’s giggle returning with full spitty lisp, “You’re Portuguese then. Your English is very good, welcome t’ Barnsley”.

  Gordon stood in silence, momentarily pondering the depths of human ignorance, but exhausted from the exchange, finally conceded, “Thank you”. A change of topic was required quickly. “Is that a bit of Badger I can smell? Haven’t had a smoke of that in a while”

  “Oooh, I don’t know, I’ve got some Beaver you can try”

  “Will it get me high?”

  “Mine will”, and now she laughed loudly and deliberately, throwing in a suggestive wink.

  Gordon checked his possible escape routes. “Maybe next time” He politely responded.

  A car horn blasted from the front of the house. “Business calls”, Mandy straightened herself, “I’ll tell you ‘bout my specials later”, another wink.

  “Can’t wait”, Gordon lied.

  She disappeared back in the house.

  ‘Cigarettes’, he thought, now left in peaceful silence. ‘Nice, mellowing, smelly cigarettes’, a craving he’d not felt in a few years as they were banned in the Mothership. But his deep reverie didn’t last long as it was broken by a tapping noise coming from Mandy’s garden. At first he resisted the urge to look over the battered fence, in fear of her return, but then a quiet voice beckoned him.

  “Hey, mister”

  Gordon looked but no-one was to be seen. He looked again.

  “Mister”, a head popped up over Mandy’s fence. A young looking gentleman looked nervously towards him. His bearded face looked worn for his tender years as he glanced furtively back to the house. “She’s mad, a total barm cake”. His voice still low, “I need to get out, but she won’t let me”. There was a trace of fear in his eyes and his dishevelled state begged attention.

  “And you are?” Gordon asked.

  “Igor, she calls me Igor. I need to get out, help me, please”

  Gordon didn’t know how to reply. Igor sounded desperate, “Can you get me Dad? He goes in the Pig. Ask for Don. You must help me, please” and with that he disappeared.

  A return visit to the Pig was on his growing ‘things to do in Barnsley’ list, he guessed it wouldn’t hurt to bring it nearer to the top. He’d head straight there ….. after a little stroll round town.