To be Jeremied
by Rapscallion
There's a new verb in town – to be Jeremied.
I've mentioned Jeremy before – pronounced Jeremayyyyy. He has a loud voice and "TALKS LIKE THIS ALL THE TIME." He house-sits for a customer of ours every so often, and he's a character.
Not just a character, but a pain in the bum, I should say. He managed to stop three customers from shopping while telling us to have a Happy Easter yesterday. He's often on the parade half an hour before we arrive, and he his manners and voice get underneath everyone's skin in a bad way. He's a character.
This morning, we arrived at the shop quite a bit earlier than normal. I settled down across the two front seats of the van for a doze – I tend to do this until we start getting the shop ready just after seven am. You know how it is – you can doze away happily, dreamily ignoring the radio…
BANG!
I started, blinking and staring around to see what had hit the van. I could see nothing. It had sounded like a hand hitting the van, so I suspected the milkman – he happens to be of a hand-banging bent.
He wasn't in sight, so I craned my neck, staring through all windows.
Nothing. Rear-view mirrors? Wing mirrors? Nothing.
Jeremy's face loomed through the driver's window.
"Aaargh!" I shrieked, and I admit this without shame. To see Jeremy shortly after waking up is near enough to loosen the bowels.
He's single, oddly enough.
He gesticulated at me and mouthed something. I assumed he wanted something, but wasn't taking the darkness of the shop, the closed sign, and the fact that I was asleep as a hint that he wasn't going to get anything. (The Boss had gone into the back of the shop to doze on the freezer).
I staggered into the newsagent's to see K, the proprietor. "I've been Jeremied," I wailed. He looked at me curiously and let me explain.
"That's nothing," he said. He began to explain what Jeremy had done the previous day.
"MY FATHER'S VERY ILL," Jeremy said, a mere three inches from K's face. "HE'S BEEN CONSTIPATED FOR A WEEK, NOW, POOR MAN. IT'S ALL DOWN TO HIS PROSTATE CANCER, YOU SEE."
"Do you mind?" K asked, pointing at his dinner. "I'm trying to eat, here."
He eyed the other customers in the shop nervously. Some were beginning to show signs of buggering off.
Contrary to popular opinion, Jeremy does have social skills. They're just crap, that's all.
"OH – I'M SORRY," he bellowed. "ANYWAY, THE NURSES HAD TO…" he continued.
Next time that customer is on holiday, K says, he's stopping her papers so the bugger cannot come in. He doesn't care how much offence he causes, and he doesn't care if he loses the account or not. He's getting rid.
We're all getting Jeremied.
****************
Doctors know that some diseases can disappear for some time, only to re-occur some time later. Such a disease is Jeremy.
Once again, we arrived at the shop well before we would normally start to get ready.
Jeremy, and I am pieceing these details together after the event, arrived at about 6:35 am. He got a paper, apparently in a subdued manner, and then his gaze took in the van in front of the shop. He noted the darkened lights, the sign that said 'Closed', and the sleeping Rapscallion in the front seat of the van.
"I KNOW I SHOULDN'T COME IN AT THIS TIME OF MORNING," he bellowed as he went into the shop through the back door, scaring the Boss rigid.
The front door to the shop is closed, and the sign says closed. Jeremy logic dictates that the back door is therefore acceptable.
****************
"The North wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what shall the poor Boss do then?"
The answer the the above (if you recognise the original then award yourself ten points) is he buggers off on holiday, leaving the intrepid Rapscallion in charge of the shop for two weeks. Today was the first day.
I got Jeremied.
Jeremy (pronounced 'Jerraymay' with the 'J' as in the start of Dr Zhivago) is a character. He's larger and louder than life. I have mentioned him before, and his most recent accomplishment was to ask for a 'loose of sausages'.
I was scrabbling for my loose change in the newsagent's when he burst in. "ARE YOU OPEN NEXT DOOR?" he bellowed.
The newsagent and I exchanged glances. "The Glamorous Assistant is in," I told him.
"I'LL GO SEE HER, THEN," Jeremy said.
"I'll stay here for a while," I told the newsagent.
"I'll put the kettle on," he offered.
When I returned to my place, Jeremy was chatting away on our phone, inviting someone to breakfast. "I'M TRYING TO DO YOU A FAVOUR," he bellowed at the handset.
"I couldn't very well tell him 'no' when he asked," the Glamorous Assistant whispered.
"Bloody could," I replied.
"I'LL HAVE SOME CHEESE," Jeremy decided, wandering behind the counters without any particular note of permission. He grabbed the first piece of cheese he could find – huzzah for shrinkwrap! – and put it on the scales. His face showed childlike bafflement until he realised that scales are rarely turned on at half past seven in the morning. He wandered off.
"Which cheese is that?" I asked.
"I DON'T KNOW!" he replied. "I'LL HAVE THAT PIECE, THOUGH."
"I need to know which variety it is for the price," I protested.
"I ONLY LIKE WHITE CHEESE," he said, peering. "IT LOOKS LIKE WENSLEYDALE."
"It also looks like Lancashire and Cheshire," I told him.
After much bellowing and pointing, I used deduction to work out that it was indeed Wensleydale. The fact that there was none left in the display had something to do with it.
I phoned the Boss up, hoping that he hadn't left for the airport. He hadn't.
"I was just Jeremied," I told him. "I hold you personally responsible."
****************
Even before eight bells struck this morning, we were Jeremyed. I would introduce Jeremy, but that would take too long.
HE TALKS AT THIS SORT OF VOLUME – INCESSANTLY.
He house-sits for a regular customer of ours and feeds from her account when he does so (the only customer we have who has a regular tab). When he's in the area, we wince. Quite a character, our Jeremy. Sends me into a Donald Sinden impersonation every time his name is mentioned. Don't ask.
Likes his strawberries, I should mention. He wanted some this morning, before the eighth bell had struck. He wasn't the only early riser this morning, for the Boss was serving someone else, but for him this was a late arrival. We've arrived at half past six to find him sat outside the door, waiting to be served. One day I expect to find him in a sleeping bag across our front door with a thermos of cocoa.
Back to this morning. The Boss served the lady with her goods, and then Jeremy came back to the counter.
"MY STRAWBERRIES?" he bellowed. "WHERE ARE MY STRAWBERRIES? I LEFT THEM HERE!"
"Here?" the Boss asked, pointing at the counter. "You mean amongst that lady's goods?"
"YES," Jeremy replied. He didn't seem to understand that sticking them amongst other people's shopping was a bad idea.
The Boss ran out to catch the lady in question who had started to drive off. He apologised and said that he'd bring her the money back if she could dig them out. Oh no, she said. I'll keep them. She didn't mind one bit.
"MY STRAWBERRIES?" Jeremy demanded.
The Boss bit back several choice replies and told him to pick some more. Still, that's another Jeremy week over with.
Rapscallion, Jeremied no more