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Miss Daisy Meets Americans

A coach pulls in and parks up beside the other coaches.  A gabble of tourists pile out.  Is that the right word for a coach full of tourists?  A gabble?  Judging by the way they can’t stop talking, I think gabble is most appropriate.

‘Gee Aylmer,’ cries one rather rotund woman with platinum blonde hair, completely inappropriate for her age. ‘Just you look at that cute liddle automobile.’  I am not sure I like being called a cute liddle automobile, whatever that is.  She walks towards me.  She’s larger than I first thought.  She’s wearing some gaudy aqua blue shorts that even Her Ladyship would turn her nose up at, revealing incredibly large thighs supporting a plethora of varicose veins.  Her upper half sports a salmon pink T shirt over which she has an open Hawaiian shirt also in aqua with a bright yellow and orange floral pattern.  On her head is a beige floppy hat.  She also has a sort of pouch hanging from her neck, which settles itself comfortably between her breasts, one which seems to point north and the other, south.  This truly is a sight to behold and it’s walking towards me.

Aylmer is still struggling down the coach steps.  He is a tall thin man; he is also wearing shorts, but they are a bright orange, blue and red tartan.  He wears a Hawaiian shirt that matches that of his wife and on his head is a baseball cap announcing that the wearer is something to do with New York Yankees, whatever or wherever that is.  Both Aylmer and his spouse are wearing brilliantly white trainers.  As he reaches the bottom of the steps, he is handed a pair of walking sticks and he too starts to hobble towards me.

‘Goddammit Dolores, I don’ wanna stand and stare at some old British automobile, I need the john.  C’mon let’s get into the diner.’

‘But Aylmer, it’s just so cute.  How old do you think it is?  D’you think it was once driven by Robert the Bruce?’

‘Jeez Dolores, you don’t half talk rubbish.  Robert the Bruce was a king.  He wouldn’t have had a goddam liddle thing like this.  He’d a’ driven a Rolls or a Cadillac.’ 

What on earth are they talking about? 

‘Yeah, you could be right.’  She sighs, obviously quite disappointed that I hadn’t been transport for a king.  No for me madam, I’m stuck with Her Ladyship.

‘Oh Aylmer before we go into the diner, will you take a photo of me.  Ma’ll love to see a picture of me sitting in a liddle Scotch automobile.’

‘The word’s Scottish hen,’ shouts a voice from a nearby bench.  ‘Scotch is wha’ we drunk!’ 

 ‘Oh all right honey,’ he opens my door.  ‘In you get.’  Dolores attempts to wedge herself in onto my driving seat, but it’s a very tight squeeze and I feel my offside sink several inches towards the ground.  ‘Ain’t you goin’ to put your legs in and sit looking out the windshield honey?’

‘I don’t think I can Aylmer.  It’s very tight in here.  It doesn’t help, that the steering is on the wrong side either.’ 

Well, all I can say is Her Ladyship can manage quite well.  She may have a rather gargantuan form, but it’s nothing compared to yours.  And as a matter of information, my steering is on the correct side.

‘Just sit there honey, I’ll try to get the hood and trunk in the picture as well.’ 

I’m confused.  The hood’s up for all to see, you don’t need to move round to my front to get it in the picture.

‘Big smile honey... there you are.  Now can I go to the John?’

‘Hang on Aylmer.  I can’t get out.

 ‘Here grab my hands.’  Dolores obeys and Aylmer endeavours to haul her back off my seat and onto her feet again.

‘Gee Aylmer; these Scotch people must be much smaller than us to get in and out of these liddle automobiles.’

‘We’re SCOTTISH,’ the voice a few benches away cries out in exasperation.

‘Breathe in honey.  Push your legs down.’  Both heave, Aylmer pulling and Dolores pushing and she finally pops out like a cork from a bottle.

‘Thank you honey.  I thought I was going to be stuck in this thing permanently.’

‘That’s all right Dolores, now can I get to the goddam john?’

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