More Figgis and co! Hurrah! I bloody love writing this!
Bertha, Oh lovely Bertha
Figgis learnt several important things in the following couple of hours. Firstly that his house, after Theresa set to work, could actually look tidier than he ever thought possible (if you overlooked the broken picture, two more cups and a particularly ugly vase, all dashed to the floor by her ungainly wings) and with enough elbow grease, the crud on the cooker top did eventually come off.
He also discovered the utter humiliation of drinking coffee from a de-handled pan on the floor. This had swiftly followed the realisation that he could neither pick up a mug, nor fit his muzzle into it. So the pan it was. At least he was not going to get shouted at for not using a knife and fork any more. Nor for having his elbows on the table. Small mercies, but Figgis would take any he could find. He also discovered Theresa made the best pancakes he’d ever tasted, and that a dog’s sense of smell only increased the pleasure of them.
A couple of hours later, as Theresa drank coffee, and Figgis was still licking the bottom of the other de-handled pan (he suspected he’d got every trace of syrup off the bottom, but he could still smell its delicious aroma dammit) Bel asked if either of them had any idea what they were going to do about their current situation.
“I want my body back,” Bel said.
“They’re shut,” Theresa said. “What do you want to do? Break in and see if it’s still there?”
Bel grinned. It appeared she did.
The three of them left Figgis’s place. They stood on the kerb and regarded his car.
“What the fuck is that?” Bel asked.
Figgis had always loved his car. He felt the Volkswagon Beetle was a classic car, and if you were going to have a car of that calibre, you may as well have one that stood out from the crowd, that truly reflected its owner. This was why his Beetle was painted purple. With white bits. And a blue rear wing, because reversing into a bollard really knackers your bodywork and Beetle parts are really hard to come by.
“Please tell me that’s not your car!” Bel cackled, “what did you do? Look for the ugliest car on the forecourt and say ‘I’ll have that one please’?”
Figgis sighed. It sounded more like the exhalation of a grumpy and extremely bronchial pensioner.
Theresa unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. She struggled to get her seatbelt over her wings but finally clipped it into place. Then she seemed to realise that Figgis was still standing on the pavement.
“Sorry!” She called. Unfastened the belt, leant over and opened the passenger door for him. He jumped in and she attempted to shut the door, which she couldn’t reach. Figgus watched in amusement as she climbed back out of the car, walked around, shut the passenger door, climbed back into the driver’s seat and went through a second bout with the seatbelt. Then she revved the engine, which promptly stalled.
“Would we be quicker walking?” Bel enquired.
“Sorry,” Theresa revved the engine again and the car finally co-operated. If Figgis could talk, he would have told her that she often played up, his beloved Beetle was a temperamental old thing and had to be cosseted. She was his pride and joy, and he called her ‘Bertha’. “Bastard thing,” Theresa muttered. Figgis grinned, he called her that too.
Bertha stuttered and coughed all the way down the street. Theresa kept up a litany of profanity, some of the words Figgis had never heard in those combinations before. She flapped her wings in irritation, almost blinding Figgis and prompting another remark from Bel along the lines of strapping those damn things up and perhaps some sort of adapted bag over them may help.
Theresa drew up outside the Transformation Studio with a face as dark as the cloud of black exhaust smoke they’d arrived in. After another short fight with the seatbelt, and yet another trip back to the car to release Figgis, the three of them stood before the studio. It was still shut.
“So now what?” Theresa asked.
“And here’s where is gets a wee bit illegal.” Bel replied.
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