Curly's World

Curly has issues.

Not with me though. We’re good mates.

Curly’s biggest issue is his failure to take his yellow pills and his white pills. This is why Curly and I are good mates. On the list of regular ‘disturbance in private premises’ addresses, Curly’s is close to the top. Still, at least I know that no-one is going to be screaming at me to ‘take him away’. Nor am I likely to get an expletive filled history of sexual infidelity.

One of Curly’s most endearing features is that he is mute during his frequent journeys to other parts of the Milky Way. Apart from the occasional scream that is. His other good qualities include his height and weight, which wouldn’t scare Nick Nack.

May Day and Elektra King should beware though. Curly’s second biggest issue is women. Wherever his Galactic travels take him is obviously to a place where women are not welcome. I’m quite sure that many suitably qualified people have asked him about his relationship with his mother. They probably nodded sagely when he replied. I don’t think I’ll bother asking.

On this occasion I have a slight problem as we potter towards Curly’s place. I’m sitting next to Miss Moneypenny. Being a 21st Century sort of guy, I consider how I should explain Curly’s misogynist views to my trusty sidekick without getting into trouble. She’s very keen.

“Curly doesn’t like women.”

“Okay”

“If he comes near you just duck.”

“Okay”

I think the risk assessment people would have been proud. Just in time too as we’ve pulled up outside. Immediately I can see that Curly has gone for the full set of issues this evening. Whenever he hasn’t taken his medication his legs hurt, which he emphasises by pounding on his thighs with his fists. Curly also likes to throw things. Everything remotely chuckable has been removed from his front room, so he ‘vents’ on the curtains and pulls them down.

This evening we have a new twist. He’s managed to get the curtain pole down too, and is standing on the coffee table brandishing it like some sort of midget ninja. Beating his legs with it from time to time to highlight the pain in them. Mrs Curly and their four daughters are barricaded in the front bedroom as normal. Having long since tired of repairing their door, Mrs Curly throws me the key.

Entry into Curly’s orbit requires that I adopt my best ‘scolding a seven tear old’ tone.

“Put that down!” One curtain pole dropped.

“Sit down!” One meek and mild midget in an armchair.

At least the ambulance crew have turned up; one’s male so it should make things easier. They’re both Curly virgins and a quick explanation is in order. While all the males relax on the three piece suite, the ladies get busy searching for Curly’s pills. This time they have been cunningly hidden, under a flannel, in an otherwise empty bathtub. He’s a crafty one.

The medical experts sort out the correct combination (two yellow and one white, should you be visiting) and they are given to Curly with a plastic tumbler of water.

“Take your pills!” Three pills swallowed. I don’t even have to ask for him to open his mouth and lift his tongue. Curly knows when he’s beat.

With fifteen minutes to kill, I use two of them by ringing speedial #47 on my phone to speak to Curly’s brother Moe. He’s already had the call from Mrs Curly and is on his way. While the girls are upstairs removing barricades I use the rest of the time to have a blokey chat with the ambulance man.

Just as we reach agreement that the curtain pole holes would be best filed with plaster, we’re interrupted.

“Tea, Brian?”

That’ll be my cue to leave then.

Curly makes awful tea.