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Driving Lessons Chapter 36 All the Madmen
The receptionist at the Mental Wellness Clinic looked up as the automatic door slid open. It had been a quiet morning so far but this was about to change radically. In fact, the receptionist wasn't to know it but her whole world perspective was about to change.
Four persons walked in. In fact, two walked in, one stumbled and one hopped.
"I bloody told you it was automatic! You don't have to bloody keep pushing the bloody door, you imbecile!" shouted a man with very messy hair, wearing a crumpled suit that had seen better days.
"Oh mon dieu! Zis is terrible. Such out of date furnishings. Look at ze carpet, mon cher. We have to go." This was from the man who had hopped in on crutches. He had flowing blond locks, was wearing indecently tight jeans and had the air of some louche washed-up nightclub owner.
"I tell yer, man, I thought it said 'push'."
"But it didn't, did it, Alfred? Stop being daft."
The one called 'Alfred', an American who would have passed for handsome if he wasn't dressed in a Spiderman costume, frowned and said, "What's daft mean?"
"You know very well what it means."
The fourth person was a depressed-looking young man dressed as a King. He snivelled and didn't look happy to be in the company of the other three.
"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked.
"Oui! You can tell me why such a gorgeous creature as yourself is working in a dump like zis?" the Frenchman said.
The receptionist sat back abruptly on her swivel chair as the Frenchman leaned in leering down her blouse.
The messy-haired man shoved him out of the way, "I'll deal with this, Francis," he said. "I'm sorry about my idiot friend, miss. I'm here for…" he didn't get to finish as the loud American butted in.
"Yo! Artie is here for a psychic session!"
"It's a psychotherapy session, Alfred!" the messy-haired individual yelled turning on the American.
"Why would he want a psychic session?" the Frenchman said, shaking his head and leaning against the reception desk, nonchalantly filing his nails.
"That's what I said! He needs it cos he's going round the bend!" the American yelled.
"I'm not going round the bend!" the scruffy Englishman yelled back.
"You have anger management issues, mon cher," the Frenchman drawled, blowing filings from his nails and observing his handiwork.
"You can bloody well shut up!" the Englishman shouted.
"Erm…yes.. Name please?" the receptionist asked. She was already thinking about going home early and wondered if she should call security.
"Alfred. Alfred F Jones. Lieutenant-Colonel Alfred F Jones," the American said confidently. The receptionist noted that he was covered in cat-hairs. "Ignore them people out there. They're my main dudes…" Alfred said, pointing at the two big men in suits guarding the door outside.
The receptionist hadn't noticed them. The American, the Englishman, the Frenchman and the sad-looking silent man in the paper crown and medieval cloak had her complete attention.
"I think she means me, you berk," the Englishman said, prodding the American.
"My name is Francis Bonaparte de Chevalier Bonnefoy," the Frenchman said and took her hand and kissed it dramatically. "Je suis francais."
"Oh right…" she replied, taking her hand away quickly and wiped it surreptitiously on her jacket, trying not to comment on this outrageous name.
"They don't want to know your names, you bloody fools!" the Englishman yelled. He had a facial tic, the receptionist noted and looked like a man on the edge.
"We operate a full confidential service," the receptionist said helpfully.
"What other services do you offer? Massage?" Francis asked leering.
She ignored him.
"My name is Arthur Kirkland and I'm here for counselling. I have to be here to get my job back. These… these… traitorous… imbecilic morons…" here Arthur's tic grew worse and his left eyebrow twitched alarmingly, "…They gave my job to my brother!"
"You need a rest though, mon cher," Francis said, putting a hand on the Englishman's shoulder and then moving it lovingly (or pervily depending on your view) down his back.
"Get off me you bloody pervert!" shouted Arthur, whose view was obvious.
"Yeah dude, you were getting dangerous. You can't be in charge of a military and be totally nuts!" Alfred said.
England turned to look at him and tried very very hard not to laugh.
The receptionist looked at the diary, "Ah yes, Mr Kirkland. We have you down for two o' clock. An urgent appointment?"
"I'll say…" Alfred muttered, looking around.
"You have some need to bloody talk! In your bloody Spiderman costume! Bloody moron!" England snapped.
"Can I have my phone back before you go in?" Francis asked and then added, with a wink to the receptionist, "I am on a high level of Candy Crush…I am very good with my hands."
"It's not as good as Call of Duty," Alfred said and began karate-kicking around the room.
"And they said I was mad…" Arthur said slowly and pulled a phone out of his back pocket and threw it at the Frenchman.
"Erm… you can go in now," the receptionist said and hoped to God that he wouldn't be long and would take his 'friends' with him soon.
"Thank you, young lady. I'm sorry I didn't get your name?" Arthur said.
"Hahahahaha! Arty-dude trying out his lame chat-up lines!" Alfred yelled.
Arthur ignored him.
"If you'll just go through the door and it's the second door on the left," the receptionist said quietly.
'Mr Kirkland' trudged off dejectedly. "Bloody hate the lot of them. All of them. They will all rue the bloody day. All of them. When my brother starts World War Three they will all be ringing me to sort it out!" he was saying as he entered the psychotherapist's office. He flung himself down onto the couch, still muttering, "Damned morons…"
"Tell me your problems… Arthur! What are you doing here?"
England almost fell off the couch, "Austria! Of all the bloody people! You! What in the name of Geoff Boycott are you doing here?"
"I'm a certified psychotherapist!"
"You're certified alright…"
"Well you may or may not know but some of the best psychiatrists were Austrian."
"Freud was Swiss wasn't he?" England said.
"He was Austrian!" Austria all but screeched.
"I don't suppose you have any tea?" England asked finally.
Austria made notes, "Obsession with tea," he said as he wrote.
"And any biscuits? Bourbon creams? Custard creams?"
"So… why are you here, England?"
"Why are any of us here?" England said.
"No I mean why are you in particular here?"
"We could ask that question of ourselves all day long couldn't we?" England countered, pulling at a thread on his jacket.
"I'm asking you," Austria said emphasising the 'you' and gritting his teeth.
England shrugged. "I have no idea. They think I'm mad! Can you believe that?"
"We prefer not to use the word 'mad'."
"Crazy then."
"Or crazy."
"Bonkers."
"Or that…" Austria was by now gripping his pen so hard it broke. He reached for another and flipped the paper over on his pad.
"Doolally."
"Shall we move on?"
"Righty-o."
"Your boss rang and arranged an appointment with us…"
"So you got a job then?" England interrupted.
"Yes, I got a job," Austria growled.
"Wow."
"What do you mean?" Austria's pen poised over the pad and he glared at England.
"Well I mean wow. You've never had a job before have you?"
"Of course I have."
England ignored this answer and carried on. "I mean we've all been in the military," here England sat up straighter and undid and then redid his tie.
"So have I."
"Not really though. I mean not like Alfred, Russia, Germany and I. I think even France had a mess about in the military. Did you know he has the rank of Colonel? I mean honestly!" England continued to pick at the thread on his jacket and began pulling it absent-mindedly as he talked.
Austria wrinkled his nose at the talk of the other Nations and made a note 'obsessed with France'.
"Anyway, all these idiots have come to live with me and if you had them living with you then you'd go a bit mad."
Austria looked up from writing 'martyr complex'. "I had Italy, Hungary, Miss Belarus, Miss Ukraine, Holy Rome and various Germanic mini states all living with me at some point or another, Arthur. So don't talk to me about your problems!" he exclaimed.
"Miss Ukraine?"
"Galicia, a large erm… portion of West Ukraine…" Austria said and broke another pen.
England blushed. "I say! What about Miss Belarus?"
"She arrived as a package deal with her sister. It was awful. They caused chaos," Austria moaned and took off his glasses, wiped them and put them back on. "That was when I took up the violin. You have no idea, Arthur, what I went through."
"I have an idea," England said with feeling, "Have you ever lived with France? The man's a pig."
"I have not had that pleasure. And I thank God. Daily."
"Yes well… it's a nightmare. A bloody nightmare. Dealing with France's trousers everyday," England said and shifted uncomfortably at the memory of his wearing of France's pants.
Austria looked up and grimaced and wrote, 'sexually repressed homosexual'.
"And then there's my bloody brother. God I hate him!" England by now had pulled on the thread of his jacket so much he had unraveled a good portion of his jacket. He stood up, agitated and began pacing the room. "He's a complete…" England was distracted by the phone in his pocket playing 'All the Single Ladies'. "What in the name of…" he muttered and pulled it out. "I can't remember putting this bloody stupid phone case on it!" he declared.
The phone had a case depicting the Eiffel tower covered in lipstick marks. (Unbeknown to England he had got France's phone and France had his.)
Austria shook his head. "Perhaps you should hand it to me?"
England ignored him. "I have no idea who this is. I mean really? Who calls themselves 'Sexy Beast 666'?"
"I don't know, I'm sure…" Austria said.
"And it's in bloody French!" England was appalled. "What kind of bloody idiot would send me a text in French?"
Austria tried to continue, "So tell me your problems with your brother. We do find that a lot of our clients have sibling rivalries…"
"My brother? You think it was my brother who sent this? Yes, you're probably right…"
"No, I think…"
"How do you say bugger off in French?"
"Arthur…"
"Never mind… how do you press reply on this thing? I don't understand this modern technology, do you?"
Austria got up and snatched the phone from his hands. He uttered a lot of words in angry German and pressed a few buttons. He then stared at the screen. "This is disgusting!" he exclaimed. "I have never seen such depravity!"
"What?" England asked.
"You really need help, England. I really don't know if I'm the one to offer it!"
"What?" England asked again, trying to take the phone from him.
"These text messages! Mein Gott!"
"I don't know what you mean!" England said. He really didn't.
"Your choice of conversational matter is dubious to say the least," Austria said with a sniff.
"What do you mean? Ordering a new garden shed? Discussing with my brother Wales about the best time to plant potatoes? Asking the Prince of Wales when he planted his tomatoes last year?"
"You disgust me."
"I don't have time for this," England said. "You and your pomposity. I have to get my Nationhood back!"
But Austria wasn't listening, he was staring out of the window and what he saw there suddenly made him scream in a rather girlish way.
England shook his head, took 'his' phone from him and then unfortunately turned to look at what had made the Austrian scream.
England jumped, startled. As well he might. It was France, with a part of his anatomy pressed against the window. The Frenchman was gesticulating obscenely at them.
"Bloody hell!" England yelled.
"Get out of my office and never darken my door again!"
"I will!" England said and stomped out.
On his way out he bumped into 'Lancelot', the poor man glared at England. "You ruined my life! You and your gay boyfriend!"
"We. Are. Not. Living. Together!" England yelled.
'Lancelot' went into Dr Edelstein's office, slamming the door.
"We're leaving!" Arthur announced to the reception area.
There was no-one there.
"Oh."
Alfred was outside talking to the receptionist.
"I'm a Lieutenant-Colonel in the US Air Force!" he was telling the poor woman.
She was smoking. The poor woman had actually given up many years ago but recent events meant that a cigarette was necessary.
"Alfred, come on, we're leaving."
"Are you better then now, Artie?"
England ignored him. He was busy trying to cover up the fact that his jacket had unraveled so much it was halfway up his back.
"What happened to your lame dude jacket, man?"
"Shut up!" England hissed. "Can you go get the car?" he asked 'Gaston', 'Pierre', 'Pascal' or whoever was Security Service bodyguard duty for the day.
"We don't take orders from you, Kirkland," one of them said.
He sighed. "Can one of you at least go get Francis? He was gesticulating rather obscenely through a window earlier. Completely ruined my so-called session with the so-called psychotherapist."
"Did he tell you your fortune?" Alfred asked.
"What?"
"Your fortune? Yer know, tell you your future?"
"I saw a psychotherapist, Alfred, not a psychic. They're two different things."
"That's what you think," Alfred said. He winked at the receptionist, who went back inside. "Hey look! It says there on that notice Pilots Course, all welcome!" America shouted, pointing at a notice on the entrance door.
England turned to read it, "It says Pirates," England said, squinting.
(Neither were actually correct.)
"You should wear glasses, man. It totally says Pilots. And we should go. Sports Centre Wednesdays. That's tomorrow. You should do more hobbies." America told him, he then added under his breath, "Now you're retired."
England stared at him and shook his head.
France actually came loping round the corner. "We have to leave now, mon amies!" he shouted.
"You mooned at Austria didn't you?" England said in a resigned voice as they ran for the car. "And what happened to your limp?"
"Moi? But of course. It was Roderich - who's face I would like to lick. And Lancelot who is in lust with me I am sure."
"You're such a weird little pervert, France," England puffed. Why on earth hadn't they parked closer, he thought.
The Secret Service men ushered them into the black people carrier and slammed the doors.
"They know where you live. You'll be done for indecent exposure," England said confidently.
France shrugged. "Can I have my phone back? Yours is rubbish. I was on level 100 on Candy Crush."
England practically threw the phone at him. He vowed to wash his hands thoroughly later. "You're disgusting."
"Level 100 is pretty good, man." Alfred said.
"I'm not bloody talking about silly games, Alfred!" England said.
"You need to stop shouting and calm down, dude."
England's phone began ringing. The ringtone was the Coronation Street theme tune. He was relieved that France had not changed it. But the Frenchman had evidently changed all the contact names - as the person ringing him was apparently 'ManEater'. England did not know anyone named thus.
"Who in God's name is this?" he yelled and then said quietly, "Ah yes, Ma'am…" and glared at France. It was the Prime Minister of Great Britain.
"You need to take up yoga," Alfred said. "That's what people do when they retire. And gardening."
"His allotment," France said with a shudder as if this was the most awful thing in the world.
"Yeah but he's been banned by that Society hasn't he?" Alfred said.
France nodded.
They were having this conversation whilst England was nodding to the Prime Minister's instructions. Eventually England interrupted and said, "Yes but Ma'am, my brother of all people! I really must object. He will start World War 3! You have no idea what you have done." Then he hung up with a dejected air. He looked around.
"Yoga," Alfred said simply and then nodded.
England could not take anyone seriously who was wearing a Spiderman costume. "I don't care about your Star Wars characters. I told you I'm not some bloody little Yoga person."
"He means ze exercise regime."
"You need to do something, dude. We'll go to that Pilots training course tomorrow at the Sports Centre."
France looked from one to the other. "Qui?"
"No, not 'key'. Pilots. You two are going to learn to fly!" America said, his eyes shining.
England shook his head and leaned his head back against the seat. He had a headache. He'd also forgotten they'd left King Henry VI of England behind…
The next day would find him with more than a headache. It would find him stuck in what the fitness instructor called a 'reverse curl' and realising that he shouldn't listen to Alfred about anything and that his 1000 year old plus body was not as bendy as it used to be. He also would find that they had a new 'roomie'…