Gnome Blind

One thing that really irks me about being a postie, among an already extensive catalogue of grievances, is the sheer stupidity of some customers. I’m out on delivery — because, of course, where else would the dream gods catapult me on a Thursday evening? — searching for a safe place that doesn’t seem to exist. I have a collection. There is a nominated safe place. A gnome. Should be easy enough, right? Wrong. Not when this customer appears to own what can only be described as Britain’s largest independent gnome dealership. There are bloody gnomes everywhere. Hundreds of the little bastards. Their cheerful little ceramic faces peer up at me from flowerbeds, pathways and shrubbery, as though I’ve wandered into some sort of ornamental cult meeting. One is holding a watering can. Another is bent over with his arse cheeks proudly displayed to the world. One appears to be mooning the neighbours while reading a newspaper. One has somehow become trapped head-first inside a bucket. Yet another seems to be enthusiastically recreating whatever Tyre Man was getting up to on that fateful morning. Thankfully, with no soundtrack. I’ve never seen so many eyes on me. It’s like being judged by the world’s smallest, most perverted jury. I begin searching. Methodically at first. Behind one gnome. Nothing. Behind another. Nothing. A gnome dressed as a postman. On theme, but nope. A gnome in a nurse’s uniform. Kinky… but again, nope. A Santa gnome. Sadly, he isn’t hiding any gifts. A vampire gnome with suspiciously large nipples. A gnome dressed as Elvis. A gnome dressed as another gnome. The deeper I venture into Gnomeghanistan, the less convinced I am that any of this is real. This is outrageous. How do they expect me to work under these conditions? Spend my entire shift upending gnomes in search of a parcel that may not even exist? Still, this isn’t the first time I’ve experienced such delights. Last summer, I showed up at one bungalow and there, wrapped in brown paper, sat a wheel. Not a tyre. Not a bicycle wheel. A wheel. The size of a monster truck tyre. The sort of thing you’d expect to see dragged across a muddy arena by a man called Thor, not abandoned on a bungalow driveway waiting for a postie. “You have got to be shitting me,” I muttered. A bloody wheel? Are these people complete morons? How exactly was I supposed to get that into the van? Roll it? Impossible. I could barely lift the thing off the ground, let alone manoeuvre it down a driveway. Already irritated, I stormed over to the front door, which was wide open — a detail I immediately wished wasn’t true. Porn. Exceptionally loud porn. The sort of volume reserved for those who have given up on curtains, dignity, and shame entirely. The television was blaring from somewhere inside. And with it… Jesus Christ. A sound I will never be able to bleach from my memory. A rhythmic slapping noise. Relentless. Methodical. Disturbingly dedicated. Like someone trying to tenderise a steak with overwhelming enthusiasm. I stood frozen. Do I knock? Do I call out? Do I announce the collection? Or do I quietly accept that whatever is happening inside this bungalow is none of my business and never should be? The slapping intensified. I made my decision. I snuck away. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was touching that wheel. If they wanted it collected, they could wait until the soundtrack to their private life wasn’t audible from three postcodes away. And now, here I am again. Not quite wank territory. But I’m dangerously close to taking a baseball bat to these bloody gnomes. I’ve gone gnome blind. All the faces have merged into a single smug expression. I can’t remember which ones I’ve searched and which ones remain suspects. I’ve entered a state of advanced ceramic-induced psychosis. Just as I’m about to abort mission, I see it. A gnome. Holding a package. I stop. Stare. Then slowly walk over. “Very fucking funny.” The little bastard is smiling. Of course he is. I scan the parcel and shove it into my bag. Great. I’ve just sacrificed an entire hour of my life to this ornamental nonsense. As I close the gate behind me, I catch the smell of something cooking. I stop. Sniff the air. Meat. Definitely meat. Following the scent around the corner, I discover a man crouched on the pavement. Cooking steaks. Directly on the pavement. Not on a barbecue. Not on a grill. Not even on a camping stove. The actual pavement. The same pavement that has witnessed decades of chewing gum, dog piss, cigarette ends and every other bodily fluid civilisation has collectively agreed not to think about. Yet somehow… The steaks smell incredible. “Well,” I mutter. “That’s unconventional.” The man flips one expertly. It sizzles against the concrete. I watch in horrified fascination. Like discovering food poisoning can, in fact, smell delicious. “I do love a steak,” I admit. The man looks up. Dark eyes. Wild eyebrows. The unmistakable energy of someone who wakes up each morning actively looking for an argument. “How much are the steaks?” I ask. He squints at me. Studies my face. Pauses. Then shrugs. “Normally ten pounds.” “Okay.” “But you look anaemic.” He squints harder. “Actually… worse than anaemic.” I blink. “What?” “Seriously. You look like you’re allergic to sunlight or something.” “Excuse me?” “So for you…” He points a greasy spatula at my chest. “Five pounds.” Wonderful. Just the compliment boost every woman hopes for during her working day. I’ll store that neatly between “you look ghostly pale” and “do you feel okay?” The steak sizzles between us. Then he picks it up and hands it over. No plate. No napkin. No apparent concern for public health. Just a steaming slab of meat. I inspect it. My stomach immediately drops. The centre isn’t pink. It isn’t rare. It isn’t even blue. It’s practically transparent. I can see my future through it. “This isn’t cooked.” “It is cooked.” “It absolutely isn’t.” “Look at it.” “I am looking at it.” “It’s see-through.” “It is traditional.” “Traditional where? A&E?” The man’s face darkens. “You insult my family.” “I insult your pavement.” “My grandfather cook this way.” “On roads?” “Yes.” “Public roads?” “Best roads.” He says it with complete sincerity. “What does that even mean?” “My father cook this way.” “Was he also banned from kitchens?” “My uncle cook this way.” “Was he arrested?” The man’s nostrils flare. “This recipe passed through generations.” He places both hands over his heart. Genuinely wounded. Like I’ve just spat on a national monument. “This steak carries history.” “This steak carries tyre marks.” “It is authentic!” “It is translucent!” “You English people complain too much.” “We complain exactly the right amount!” I hold the steak up to the sunlight. A bird flies behind it. I can see the bird. Through the meat. I’m essentially holding edible tracing paper. “Look!” I shout. “I can see wildlife through my lunch!” The man leaps to his feet. Now we’re both yelling. A small crowd has gathered. Nobody appears concerned. Several seem to be taking sides. “YOU HAVE NO CULTURE!” he bellows. “YOU HAVE NO FOOD HYGIENE CERTIFICATE!” “THIS IS ART!” “THIS IS ROADKILL!” “THIS IS MY FAMILY’S LEGACY!” “YOUR FAMILY NEEDS A THERMOMETER!” For a moment, neither of us speaks. We simply glare at each other across the world’s most aggressively undercooked steak. The Italian folds his arms. I fold mine. Neither of us willing to back down. The pavement hisses. The steak glistens. The afternoon sun beats down. And suddenly… Everything tilts. Just slightly. As though somebody has quietly picked up the entire street and shifted it a few inches to the left. The Italian’s face stretches oddly. His voice starts sounding as though it’s travelled to me through several miles of water. “You see?” he says. “Too pale. I tell you. Nobody listens to Giuseppe.” The pavement shifts beneath my feet. I blink. Once. Twice. The world flickers. And then… Nothing. When I open my eyes, dozens of faces are staring down at me. I nearly have a heart attack. Gnomes. Bloody gnomes. An entire ceramic audience. The postman gnome. Santa. The one with his trousers around his ankles. All gathered around me in a silent circle of ceramic concern. Or judgment. It’s hard to tell with gnomes. For one horrible moment, I genuinely think I’ve died. This is it. The afterlife. Not clouds. Not angels. Just an eternity trapped in a garden centre display. Then a human face appears amongst them. An old man in a flat cap. Late seventies. Weathered face. Thick glasses. The sort of man who looks as though he’s spent the last forty years fighting an increasingly personal war against pigeons. He peers down at me. “Ah,” he says. “I thought we’d lost you there.” I blink. Everything feels fuzzy. My head is pounding. “What happened?” The old man shrugs. “You went down like a sack of spuds.” I stare at him. “What?” “One minute you were rummaging around my garden looking behind gnomes…” He gestures at the crowd surrounding us. “…the next your legs simply resigned.” He demonstrates by collapsing forward at the waist. “No warning. No dramatic speech. No final words. Just…” He claps his hands together. “Whump.” I slowly sit up. The gnomes continue staring. Judging. Always judging. “You’ve been watching me?” “Kitchen window.” He nods matter-of-factly. “Saw the whole thing.” The thought that somebody has spent the last hour watching me search his garden, interrogate gnomes, and then collapse into the petunias is somehow more embarrassing than the blackout itself. “How long was I out?” He scratches his chin. “Long enough for me to make a cup of tea.” “Oh.” “And watch half of Bargain Hunt.” “Oh.” “And deadhead the petunias.” I close my eyes. “Oh God.” The old man offers me a hand and helps me to my feet. “Name’s Jerry.” “Amanda.” Jerry gives me a long look. The kind old men give when they’ve already reached a conclusion and are waiting for you to catch up. Then he nods towards me. “Anaemia.” “What?” “Anaemia.” He points at my face. “Seen it before.” I stare at him. Jerry shrugs. “Looks like you’re in need of a good steak.”