Nothing up my sleeves

He had no legs, did he?
Mr Tickle, I mean. Well,
practically none. Just
little stumps. Not more
than ankles really. Just
enough for his feet to
grab onto. A foothold,
if you will.

But you don't notice
that, see. Noone does.
All the attention is
on his "extraordinarly
long arms". Inverted
commas. To quote, but
to draw attention, as
well. He probably did
that. Mr Tickle, I mean.
That annoying inverted
commas gesture that
some people make.
Patronizing people. He
looks the sort. Him and
his long arms. Just the
sort in fact. Precisely.

But, I digress. The legs.
No focus is given to the
legs, or rather, the lack
thereof. "Oooooh look
at his arms !" His
"extraordinarily long arms!"
They get everywhere.
Tickling people.
Hardly...well...
you don't think
about that
either.

Well, you didn't. Not
back then. In the days
before mumsnet and
parental advisory
certificates. When
Marilyn Manson was
only a pre-apocalyptic
Mary Whitehouse
nightmare. Bet she
used to wake up
with the bedspread
soaked in sweat.
Twill, probably.

An age of appropriate
it was not. The 70s. You
can't be appropriate
with those carpets.
Vomited patterns
from the souls of
tortured ghosts.
50 quid a square metre,
not including underlay.
The sort of carpet
Mr Tickle probably had.
Him and his tiny
legs. He distracts you
though, doesn't he?
Clever sod. "Look at
the arms!" A conjurer's
trick. "Nothing up
my sleeves!" Course not.
No sleeves. Naked, orange,
stumpy-legged freak.

Mez

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