Yesterday, Thurston turned up out of the blue at lunchtime, at Kings Park. He’s now off work full-time. But apparently not short of funny things to do. Afterwards, June and Sally commented on how high, and, I suppose, how tight he wore his trousers. Meaning Thurston’s allegedly enormous schlong and associated parts became the talking point of the rest of the afternoon.
Actually, I tell a lie. It wasn’t till mid afternoon that June and Sally arrived back from the nursery both with smiles a mile wide, as if they’d jointly discovered the meaning of life. They got out of the truck.
“Can we ask you a question?”
“Did you notice the way Thurston was wearing his trousers?”
Apparently, they’d seen some piece of graffiti on the way, which reminded Sally of it.
Over the course of the rest of the afternoon, a theory began slowly to distill itself from out of the random cosmic fart plasma. Thurston was unsuited to the company of women. This much was obvious. Nevertheless, he had a ‘piece’ worthy of Muhammed himself. And, according to Sally and June, some bullet manufacturing capability as well. The entire package hung to one side. I dared not ask which.
Was this a cheap advertising gimmick targeting the 25 to 40 female demographic? Had Thurston discovered the way to the heart of modern woman? No. It couldn’t be. Upstairs and downstairs were on different planets. There could now be no doubt Thurston’s tackle wished to escape.
Where would it go? Out on the town? Main Street? Or hitch a ride to Wellington?
Would it ever come home?

For “The Epic Travels of Thurston’s Tackle” I choose the key of D major.

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