ERROL’S DISPATCHES
From the Newsdesk of Goodboy Bindle Featherstone of Quirm — Head of Marketing, Roving Reporter & Cynical Car Critic
Monday. Newtown. Our second outing at this particular beat, and I must confess, gentle readers, I approached it with a journalist’s most dangerous companion: hope.
Hope that the weather would be kinder than our inaugural visit. Hope that the footfall would be stronger. Hope that Newtown might yet prove itself a worthy addition to the market rotation. Hope, as it turns out, is a slippery business. It sets you up and then it knocks you down, like a terrier with a grudge.
But I am getting ahead of myself. Let us begin with the morning.
The Setup: A Rare Luxury
We arrived to find that the stall had been set up for us by the market organisers.
Let me repeat that, readers, for it is a sentence so rare I want it to sink in properly. The stall. Had been set up. FOR us.
No gazebo wrestling. No guy-rope tangles. No muttered words from the -ing eejit that Mummy pretends not to hear. We simply pulled up (in the old Beamer — the Black Chariot clings to life like a journalist to a hot tip) and found our pitch ready and waiting. Tables arranged. Gazebo standing. Everything in its place.
The -ing eejit looked almost disappointed. He had psyched himself up for battle, and there was no battle to be had. He wandered round the gazebo for a few minutes, checking guy ropes that didn’t need checking, adjusting things that didn’t need adjusting. A man without a purpose is a sad sight. I watched from my travel crate with quiet amusement.
Mummy, meanwhile, was delighted. She set about arranging the stock with the calm efficiency of a woman who has been gifted an extra half hour of her life back. The jewellery gleamed. The robots stood to attention. My Executive Perch was deployed — Quilt No.3 on the Really Useful Boxes, positioned for optimal surveillance of a crowd that, as it turned out, would largely fail to materialise.
The Heat & The Empty Streets
It was a really hot day. Scorching. The kind of heat that makes the pavement shimmer and turns every patch of shade into a coveted resource. The pavement was too hot for doggies’ feets — I conducted a preliminary paw-test and confirmed that the ground was approximately the temperature of a frying pan. I retreated to my Executive Perch and stayed there.
The heat was driving people away from the streets. I cannot blame them. Who wants to browse jewellery when the sun is doing its best impression of a vengeful deity? Who wants to admire wooden robots when your own internal temperature is reaching critical levels? The few brave souls who ventured out moved slowly, fanning themselves with whatever came to hand, seeking shade rather than shopping opportunities.
And for me to work, gentle readers, I need passers-by. I am a great salesman — this is not boasting, it is simply data — but even I cannot sell to an empty street. I need faces. I need footfall. I need people to stop and say “oh, isn’t he adorable?” so that Mummy can swoop in with a necklace and the -ing eejit can demonstrate a robot. I am the bait, but I need fish.
There were no fish. The river was dry.
The Ditzy Goth Girly & The Other Jewellery Lady
There were bright spots. There are always bright spots if you know where to look.
We had a very nice ditzy goth girly in the stall with us. She was helping out, and her energy was a welcome addition to a slow day. She had the kind of cheerful chaos that reminds me of Loki when he’s chasing a fly — slightly unfocused but utterly charming. She fussed me appropriately and understood my need for periodic ear rubs. I approved. She is welcome back anytime.
I also went for a couple of walks — carefully, on the shady side of the street, avoiding the hot pavement where possible — and met the nice other silver jewellery lady. It is important to maintain good relations with neighbouring traders. We exchanged pleasantries. I gave her a tail wag that said I respect your craft, even if you are technically a competitor. She gave me a smile that said I understand you are the real draw here, small dog. Professional courtesy. It matters.
The Old War Wound
I must report, with some reluctance, that my leg was bothering me quite a lot.
The left knee. The luxating patella — or luxatuaring paella, as I prefer to call it, much to the -ing eejit’s editorial despair. The heat seems to aggravate it, or perhaps it was the long drive, or perhaps it is simply the passage of time reminding me that I am nine years old and have earned every one of my grey whiskers. Whatever the cause, it was a sore day. I limped a little. I rested a lot. Mummy noticed — she always notices — and made sure I had extra cushioning on my Executive Perch.
The Goddess is attentive to these things. She has booked me in for a hex-rae, as previously reported, but I must lose a few kilos before that can happen. Grabbity remains a heartless bitch. I am working on it. The DUK ONNA STIK is a lean treat, but the snacks may need to be… reconsidered. I shall keep readers updated on this deeply personal journey.
The Verdict on Newtown
I think Newtown is doomed.
There. I have said it. The words no journalist wants to type, but the truth must be told.
Very poor sales. Not just poor — very poor. The kind of poor that makes you look at the petrol receipts and wonder if this is actually a business or an elaborate charity project. I am a great salesman, but even I cannot conjure customers out of thin air. The passers-by were distinctly lacking. The heat had driven them indoors, and who could blame them?
We have given Newtown two tries now. The first was hot and quiet. The second was hotter and quieter. Mummy and the -ing eejit did the maths. Even if sales improve by five hundred percent — five hundred percent! — it would still be hardly enough to keep the lad in DUK ONNA STIK. And that, readers, is the bottom line. If a market cannot cover my treat budget, what is the point of it? A dog must have standards.
So farewell, Newtown. We barely knew you. Perhaps in cooler months you might have been a winner. Perhaps in another life we might have been friends. But the newsroom has spoken, and the assignment has been cancelled. Some beats are not meant to be worked.
The Phantom Chariot
And now, gentle readers, an update on the vehicle situation. Or rather, a non-update.
We still have the old Beamer. The Black Chariot wheezes on. The new vehicle — whatever it may be — has proven elusive. The -ing eejit has tried to buy no fewer than four cars since my last dispatch. FOUR. And every single one has fallen through.
One was sold before he could get there. One had something wrong with the paperwork. One was described as “immaculate” and turned out to be anything but. And one — my personal favourite — was apparently “not actually for sale,” a detail the seller neglected to mention until the -ing eejit was halfway through arranging the finance.
I am told there is now a fifth candidate. The -ing eejit found another car the day after the Newtown market. He showed Mummy a photograph on his phone with the enthusiasm of a man who has not yet learned that enthusiasm is a trap.
I am so over it.
I have seen it all before. The photographs. The phone calls. The hopeful journeys to far-flung dealerships. The long faces when another one bites the dust. I am a journalist, and I have learned to be sceptical. I believe in evidence. I believe in sources. I believe in a car only when I am sitting in it, on Mummy’s lap, feeling the engine rumble beneath us.
If a car actually shows up — actually, physically, verifiably appears on our driveway — I shall cast an eye over it. I shall give it a professional sniff. I shall deliver my verdict in this very column. But until then, the Phantom Chariot remains a myth, a legend, a story the -ing eejit tells himself at night to ward off despair.
Prove me wrong, -ing eejit. I dare you.
Home & The Holy Hour
Home. The ranch. The AIR CON beastie, my constant summer companion, hummed its cool welcome.
Loki, my bruvah, was curled on the sofa. He looked up as I entered. Bad day? said the blink. Bad day, I confirmed. The heat was terrible and nobody came. Loki stretched, a long black slinky stretch that expressed more sympathy than words ever could. Humans are foolish, his posture seemed to say. They do not appreciate fine jewellery and small dogs. Precisely, bruvah. Precisely.
Alice was on the armchair. I did not approach. She did not acknowledge me. The Tiger and I maintain our careful distance. I respect her boundaries. She respects the fact that I am still alive, which I take as a grudging compliment.
And then —
DUK ONNA STIKKK!!!!1!11!!!
At least this is reliable. At least this never lets me down. The -ing eejit produced it with the usual minimal ceremony, and I conducted my investigayshun with the usual rigour. Chewy. Duck-flavoured. A constant in a world of failed car purchases and doomed markets. Five stars. Always five stars.
Signing Off
And so to bed, gentle readers. A hot, slow, disappointing day at Newtown. A market that may never see us again. A leg that aches and a car situation that remains stubbornly unresolved.
But also: a Goddess who watches over me. An -ing eejit who, for all his faults, never stops trying. A bruvah who understands. A Tiger who keeps her distance. And a DUK ONNA STIK at five o’clock, as reliable as the sunset.
The newsroom clock ticks on. The typewriters are silent for now. Tomorrow is another day, another market, another chance. Perhaps the Phantom Chariot will materialise. Perhaps the weather will cool. Perhaps a thousand customers will descend upon our stall and buy every robot in sight.
Or perhaps I shall simply curl up on Quilt No.3, bask in the hum of the AIR CON beastie, and dream of steak.
Either way, I remain —
Head of Marketing. Roving Reporter. Sceptical Observer of Car Adverts.
KthxBai — Errol
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