House of ill repute

I had never visited a prostitute before but, I thought, 'why not?' The more I considered it, the more I convinced myself it was the perfect solution to my little predicament.

My wife had stopped listening to me a long time ago. We barely spoke to each other unless there was a domestic need. Right now, my need for something else was overwhelming and I knew I could not ask my wife. We had become so distant that we had even retired to our own separate bedrooms these three years past.

Stepping tentatively into the house, having assured myself I was entirely unobserved, I was faced with an elderly lady sitting upon a stool behind a high counter. She wore an expansive dress, a simple bonnet and a sight more makeup than I would think dignified her advanced years.

"Yes, dearie," she said, in an inquisitive but somewhat bored tone. "What can I do for you?" She eyed the briefcase I held in my left hand with something like suspicion.

"Well," I temporized, "I wondered if you had .... if I might ... well, erm, er..."

"Is the companion you seek to be blonde or brunette? Tall, short, svelte or... generously proportioned?"

She laid great stress on the word 'generously', as if expressing a measure of luxury. For what I had in mind, generosity of proportion, or otherwise, was hardly a consideration.

"I care not how well proportioned the lady may be, nor how tall. Neither am I concerned with the color of her hair."

"What exactly are you concerned with then?" she asked suspiciously.

"Well I have only one need..."

"Yeeers..."

"A most particular need."

"A particular need?"

"Yes, a most particular need."

"And what, pray, my good sir, might that particular need be?"

She placed the same emphasis on the word 'particular' that she had on the word 'generously.' I began to wonder if the generosity of the proportion of the lady, and the particular nature of the need, might have a bearing on the price I should be expected to pay. On this point I held my counsel.

"I must insist upon finding a companion for the evening who is a good listener."

"Ah! A good listener," she replied. "That!" She said it almost with relief. "Well I should say that all my girls are good listeners, of course they are, sir."

"Well, that's splendid, madam, but I must insist on a companion who is particularly good at listening."

"And I know just the person," she said and, before I could protest, she leant back, opening a little door set into the far panel and, with her head inclined as if she were aiming to project her voice to the top of a stairway beyond, called out. "Chrysanthemuuuuum! A gentleman wishes to make your acquaintance."

The lady known as Chrysanthemum turned out to be of medium proportion, moderately greying hair, and with a benign countenance I felt to be rather appealing for what I had in mind. She greeted me politely, and offered her hand which I, ever the gallant, took and pressed gently to my lips, bowing my head ever so slightly. I felt I had overdone it a little. I was not, after all, being presented to Her Majesty, God bless her imperial soul.

Notwithstanding, the lady led me to an upper room, wherein there was a bed, a dressing table, and a curtained off area whose function I dared not guess. My hostess bade me sit upon the bed, which offer I declined, instead inviting her to take her own ease upon the elaborately quilted cover. I insisted on standing.

Still gripping the briefcase in my left hand, I rested it upon the bed and released the clasp, giving access to the contents therein.

"Are you sitting comfortably...." I asked, reaching into the leather satchel.

She nodded an affirmative, looking somewhat warily in the direction of my right hand which was now groping within the briefcase.

At last, I was able to grasp the item I sought. Drawing it from the case, I weighed it in my hand with satisfaction.

".... Then I'll begin." I continued, unravelling the rolled-up manuscript.

"Chapter One.... It was the best of times, it was the worst of times."

O ~ 0 ~ o ~

To those not familiar with "Are you sitting comfortably...." it was the opening line of a BBC radio programme for children (Listen with mother) which ran between 1950 and 1982. It was the prelude to a story reading. According to Wikipedia, the line was originally an ad lib by presenter Julia Lang on 16 January 1950, but became so well known that it appears in The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations and has been incorporated and sampled by many artists and musicians, among others.

This story is based on more than one true story. Originally inspired by an incident that occurred in the 'respectable' suburban district I have lived in for some 30 years. One year, locals were shocked to discover that a brothel had appeared in a quiet residential street. Quiet brazenly the house was deployed offering sexual services, the precise details of which I have no way of knowing. At this point I hasten to add that I did not visit the premises, nor considered doing so. That this story is narrated in the first person should not be taken to be autobiographical. I sometimes write in the first person and it does not mean that I am writing from personal experience.

The second influence on this story was a TV drama I recall watching many years ago. In it, the wonderful Leo McKern played a former Indian colonial who returned to the UK to live with his wife and her sister. A lonely individual, he took solace by visiting sex workers, much to the disgust of a police officer who found out his little secret. In one of the latter scenes it was revealed that the character's particular 'need' was to read his memoirs to someone, because nobody else was interested. The listening lady was clearly not in the least bit interested but was presumably happy to be paid for a task that was less distasteful than some of the tricks she earned her living by.

I thought it would be fun to reveal the narrator of my story to be none other than.... well, if you have read the final line, you will know who I am talking about. If not, look it up.

Thanks for reading

Ray