Friday evening is my favourite part of the week. It's the time when I feel most normal.
Yes, like everyone else, I'm tired. I start by pretending to move the piano. The people that make me feel normal come over, stroke the piano's quilted cover that I have rested my head upon and say, "So comforting. How long do you need?" before they help me push.
Then there's paedo-watch. When you run a club for children you have to be ever vigilant.
"There's an old man sitting in his car, watching the children arrive. I've seen him a few times now. Do you think we should be worried."
We agree that we should probably watch.
"Which car is it?"
"The blue one with the steamed up windows."
"I hope he's just there to pick someone up after work. It is six o clock after all."
We agree but decide we should watch to make sure.
Eventually another car arrives and he gets out and goes into the church hall opposite.
"Oh, he's in charge of the flower arranging and gun violence club."
We are all relieved until we realise the irony of having left the children inside unattended while we have been extra attentive to their safety.
The flower arranging and gun violence club is probably not unique to our town. Flower arrangers are people that you should never mess with. They look sweet and innocent, with their tightly permed gray hair and elasticated waists but they are, in fact, highly trained killers. If you look carefully you can find a weapon concealed in every arrangement. Every church employs flower arrangers rather than security guards. Have you noticed how no one is stealing lead from church rooves anymore? That's down to the flower arrangers and their night time patrols. Flower arrangers are shocking at parking but you must never challenge them about it or you will be met with a steely stare and fingers the twitch restlessly by their pocket.
So it's with some trepidation that we realise that one of us had been blocked in the car park by a psychotic floraphile.
"Which door shall we go in?"
We look: scratch our heads until the most decisive of us flings open the nearest one and steps into a room of silent assassins. The worst part is that this entrance puts them next to the speaker, who is demonstrating how to use gladioli and cheese plant leaves to conceal a Mac-10.
She is ushered out by the man we had watched earlier, who tells her that it's the demonstrator's car and it can't be moved. Instead, he finds the person next to her, who comes out, complaining that her car isn't a pink Dacia and seems surprised that it would be possible for anyone to manoeuvre a car from the space, even when she moves her's.
We wait while our friend backs out of the space.
"Are you all together?" the man asks.
"Nope," says our percussion director, shaking his maracas at him threateningly.
The man looks at the maracas and decides it might be best not to challenge the Musician bombers, just in case it spoils his Friday feeling.
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