Ever since my father's untimely death as a child, I was afflicted by a speech impediment which manifested as temporary muteness. Often, when I did finally find my voice, the wrong sound would come out. For example, if I wished to say "dulce et decorum est pro patria mori", the phrase would come out as "dolce et decorum est, pro patria mori": complete gibberish.
Looking back now, I suppose the reason why my father's untimely death as a child was so spectacularly terrifying to me, was that when he died, he was much the same age as I was. I had always assumed that dying was for the old and infirm, or at the very least the adult, and not children like us. My father's death as a child brought the whole weight of mortality crushing down upon my larynx, and there it stayed for at least ten years.
Eventually I came of age and inherited the public house my father had bequeathed me, and my impediment grew less and less severe. By the age of seventeen I was quite well acquainted with that elixir of lubrication, to the extent that with a regime of daily medicaments I could quite confidently work my lips, expounding theories of beauty and death and country to any poor fellow who wanted a drink. With enough liquid elocution I could "Peter Piper" with the thest of bem, even adding little flourishes and trills here and there as I saw fit.
With the passage of time, I eventually sprouted into something of a gentleman. True, I had always been quite eager to doff my hat to any she-beings entering the bar, and was quite lenient and compassionate on the matter of ladies lounging in the men's bar (which constituted the entire tavern but one room). But all compassionate sensitivities were thrown by the wayside when Esmerelda walked in.
Esmerelda was five-foot six and the first time I saw her, I noticed from the bulge in her crinoline that she wore an electric self-strapping garter attached to her dominant leg. Her hair was bright and radiant and changed colour depending on the gloom of the tavern or the time of the day. My friends, I was in love.
Esmerelda, beauty upon beauty, walked up to the bar and politely and straightforwardly asked me for a Tom Shandy's Electric Hairnet. Her voice overflowed with husky whispered thimbles of maple syrup, a punnet of strawberries and a can of clotted cream. I felt my ears go hot and stammered in the affirmative. I knew how to make a Tom Shandy's Electric Hairnet; I had made about ten a night for the last two years, and the whole ritual of squeezing the coconut and electrocuting the orangutang had become so engrained in my muscle memory that I suspect I could do it lobotomised. But still, I fumbled. I smashed two highball glasses trying to unhook the defibrillator. I spilt half the coconut on the ground. I could see my sweat dripping down onto the electrodes as I tried to stick them on Pete, the orangutang.
And yet, despite knowing that my irrational nerves were ruining a perfectly good Tom Shandy's Electric Hairnet, this knowledge only encouraged my nerves more and more.
Finally, I finished what I deemed to be an acceptable drink. It wasn't the best Tom Shandy's Electric Hairnet I had made, and it certainly wasn't the best Electric Hairnet that Tom Shandy had made, but it was passable nonetheless. Embarrassed by my sweat on the glass, I put it down on the bar instead of passing it to Esmerelda directly. "Nice day", I tried to say. But I couldn't get the word out. Nothing came. I strained my throat. Nothing came. Esmerelda looked at me with her eyes, before taking a sip of the Tom Shandy. "Good Shandy", she said. I blushed. I loosened my throat. Nothing came. I cleared my throat. Nothing came. I took a sip of water. Nothing came. Esmerelda picked up her Tom Shandy and went to the ladies' lounge.
I just couldn't find the right vowel in time.
Tom Shandy's Electric Hairnet. Photograph by annca
