The StoryGraph

“Vat do you mean, ‘not again’? Come. Join me. We have a lot to talk about, young man!” Kwame turned and saw the bearded, bespectacled man snuggled into his chair, and took his position lying down on the chaise lounge.

“I’m not in the mood, Freud,” he sighed, knowing full well he would be ignored.

“Nonsense, boy. Now tell me: vhy do you continue to suppress your feelings for Joany? Is it because she reminds you too much of your mother?”

“Na, mate. She’s old! I’m just not into that.” Kwame was already starting to tire… he knew where this was going.

“Young boy, if you keep on ignoring your libido’s call, who knows vat will happen to you? All manner of emotional disorders and psychoses… you are already on the brink of obsessive compulsion!” Freud took out his pocket watch and tenderly rubbed it on the couch, the way he always did when he made “diagnoses”.

“Shut up you buffoon! How many times do I have to tell you: brushing my teeth twice a day is NHS recommended. Just because you lived before the days of proper dental hygiene doesn’t mean you can say I’m indulging in mock fellatio.”

“Yeah! Just because you lived before the days of proper dental hygiene doesn’t mean you can say he’s indulging in mock fellatio!” squeaked Olpy from the kitchen. He admired Kwame a lot, and always tried to get involved in his battles, like an eager little brother. Kwame had gained a grudging respect for him, and to be fair, as far as ferrets go he was OK company.

“Thanks Olpy,” Kwame called out. “Anyway Freud, I have things to do tonight. Can we wrap this up? Just send the bill through and I’ll sort it out.” Kwame was half way to the kitchen by this point.

“Fine, fine, boy. Same time next week? We must pick up where we left off last time with your childhood fascination with dinosaurs. I feel this can explain your current gender confusion!” said Freud with zeal.

“Using shampoo does not make me gender confused, you moron!” Kwame muttered. He knew it was a losing game.

 

Kwame remembered that he had left some food out on the breakfast island for Olpy before he left for work. He stopped at the entrance to the kitchen to untie the boat from its mooring. It was only a five minute punt across the loch, and it was usually quite a nice one, except for when he had the early shift at Dundas. His land lady wouldn’t let him put the heating on till 7am, and it could get pretty cold. On winter mornings it meant he could ice-skate to breakfast, though. Kwame got to the island and immediately took off his shoes to feel the sand beneath his feet. Olpy was ferreting around underneath the palm tree, digging for something, and scattering sand everywhere. As Kwame approached he saw flecks of orange and green being sprayed about too, and realised that he wasn’t digging, but burying. As he came nearer, Olpy started to work more and more furiously. Kwame got there just as he was patting down the last bit of sand over a small orange bulge. “Move over, Olpy,” he said calmly.

“No,” Olpy replied, rather timidly. Kwame picked the ferret up and kicked at the bulge to reveal a pile of old carrots and broccoli. “Olpy, is this what you’ve been doing with all the veg I’ve been leaving out for you?” he asked, rather offended. He thought Olpy had finally learned to eat his greens. Evidently not.

“Sorry, Kwame. It’s just so… crunchy. My people are carnivores! I can’t deal with all these accessories in my meals.” Olpy started to lick Kwame’s hand in that way he knew calmed him down when he was angry.

“Don’t bother Olpy. I’m not angry, just disappointed.” Oh God. He had become his dad… Maybe Freud did have a point. He dropped the ferret, who sulked away with his tail between his eyes, and went to sit on the beach.

 

Kwame wanted to stargaze, but irritatingly the light switch was on the other side of the loch, and he had been so annoyed at Freud he had forgotten to switch it off before coming over to the island. Then he remembered that he hadn’t actually had dinner himself. He went back to the palm tree and picked up his fishing rod and a bit of deceased carrot for bait. Within 10 minutes Kwame already had 3 cans of tuna reeled in. He set to gutting and cleaning them, and was just thinking about what to eat them with when he heard a shrill sound. He looked up and saw a slightly chubby man with a whistle in his mouth,  wearing pink and blue speedos with a sheriff’s badge pinned to them, bounding towards him. “Stop! Stop right this minute!”

“Oh come on, officer, not again!” This was not Kwame’s day.

“How many times have I told you: this is a breakfast island. If you want to eat post-elevenses category foods, you must vacate these premises at once!” He spouted officiously, still out of breath.

“Fine,” said Kwame, “but you know, you’re missing out on a whole tourist market by being so old-fashioned.”

“What you call old-fashioned, we call standards, my man. Now clear off. Go! Immediately.”