My Uncle Michael

Rosey cheeked and hair swept back, shoulders sloped just slightly with a softness that flowed with his strong animated gestures that drew you into his excited grey blue eyes. Never scared to over dress he worked every room he entered, his crisp tie containing his starched collared shirts, housed in angular double breasted suits. Restless but elegant, always on the move kicking out the cuffs of his slacks to the beat of his shiny loafers. Taller than his height and wiser than his pearls of wisdom, with out you knowing, he had sold you something you didn’t even want. 

Rumours would make there way to my non-consenting ears at weddings, baptisms, funeral wakes, Christmas dinners, birthdays, summer parties. 

‘Hell of a man your uncle Micheal, have you heard about the time he did a duet with Shirley Bassey?’ 

The sun had burnt through into an aching haze. The incinerating sausages hissed at the guarding circle of meaty men who’s conversation slopped out there squinting faces like lubricated slugs. There rumbling only paused for synchronised sloshes from shiny cans of cider. I sat opposite my uncle who swirled a bulbous glass of chablis, mesmerisingly refracting his green striped shirt and red paisley scarf, knotted and slung to one side. His silky baby blue swimming shorts released his sharp legs, the shiny shins each caught a strip of sun light. The Panama hat tilted, he looked down to admire his white espadrilles before re-capturing Susans eyes. He softy explains the energy efficiency of his new boiler in the harbour side flat. Her eyes whirled like he was rubbing lavender infused oil into her shoulders and humming in her ear. As a waft of burnt meat crossed my nostrils I noticed a long stretchy piece of skin weighted down by a testicle. It hung over the chair like a magicians velvet sac. My eyes fell back and I felt the light plastic chair flex. It paused in a moment of tension before the tolerance snapped me onto the grass as I screamed out BOLLOCKS.