We Have Lost The Chihuahuas: Barking Mad British Humour by Paul Mathews

Author:Paul Mathews
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2017-11-27T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

Howie’s first stop of the day was Conor O’Brean’s flat in Clapham. It was a sensible alternative to heading straight for Buckingham Palace for several reasons. Firstly, it was a short bus ride from his Battersea pod. Secondly, Conor still figured prominently in Howie’s suspicions and he wanted to probe him some more. Thirdly, Howie hated being in the press office too early because, all too often, one of the vice presidents would drop by to bend his ear about an article in one of the newspapers – usually one that was completely accurate, focused on the vice president in question and exposed their complete and utter incompetence. And fourthly – and most importantly – Conor lived above a doughnut shop. And Britt’s cheese on toast wasn’t enough to satisfy his morning hunger.

The bus journey only took a few minutes and he was soon walking up Clapham High Street in the direction of Stara Pączkarnia. As he strolled along, Howie noted a wide variety of dogs being walked: shih-tzus, cocker spaniels, poodles and various mixed breeds. And then he caught sight of a woman in a brown fur hat and coat so luxurious Howie at first mistook her for a giant Afghan hound. As she approached, he could see she was leading a tiny creature on a lead. Was it? Yes, it was. A Chihuahua.

He stopped on the pavement. This woman looked like the kind of person who knew a lot about pedigree Chihuahuas. Something told him he should speak to her.

Howie raised a hand in greeting and adopted his presidential spokesperson voice. ‘Excuse me, madam. I couldn’t help admiring your Chihuahua.’

The woman swished her light brown hair, which perfectly matched the colour of her fur accoutrements. ‘How kind of you to say so,’ she trilled in a regal voice. ‘One always tries one’s best to present one’s Chihuahua in the most favourable light – even when one is only going for a Clapham walkabout.’

‘What’s the little one’s name?’ asked Howie, being careful to keep his distance from the animal.

‘Forsyth Landon Montague D’Arcy Harrington the Third.’ She blew an exaggerated kiss to her dog. ‘Known affectionately as “Forsyth Landon”.’

Howie caught the dog’s eye. ‘Good morning, Forsyth Landon.’ Then he faced the woman. ‘The name’s Pond. Howie Pond.’

‘One is pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Pond.’

‘Call me Howie.’

The dog growled.

The woman extended a hand. ‘And my name is Geraldine Nancy Jemima Octavia Wellington-Smythe. But you, Howie, may address one as Gerry.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Gerry.’

The dog growled again.

‘Don’t take any notice of Forsyth Landon – he’s a very protective little Chihuahua, aren’t you, my darling?’

The dog moved its growling up a gear.

‘And what a wonderful specimen he is – possibly the most handsome Chihuahua I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting on the streets of London.’

The dog gave Howie a stare that clearly communicated the message ‘Don’t bullshit me, human.’

Gerry responded to the canine-focused flattery with a joyous shimmy. ‘And if one may say so, Howie, you have a very good eye for Chihuahuas.

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