The Oddballs

The Oddballs

Another tale from Auntie Barbara’s Cream Bun Café

It was Ruby that spotted the folder in the corner near the table where the “College Kids” sat every Thursday. She and Barbara, the owners of the Cream Bun Cafe, had just locked the door, turned the sign to CLOSED, and flopped down at one of the tables. It had been a busy day and a cup of tea was needed before they started the evening cleanup.

Barbara had nicknamed them the “College Kids” in the same way as she had called the local clergy the “Monday Ministers." To be truthful, you could hardly call them kids as most of them had been round the block more than once and were half way round again. But that didn’t stop them acting like kids. They came in for what they called a light lunch after their Creative writing class. It was mostly coffee and cream buns plus the odd sausage roll. The visit was always finished off with the cafe speciality, Rhubarb & Honey Surprise.

For some reason they were always in high spirits and bantering about what they had written that morning. “Is that really true – Yeah, every word --I don’t believe you --You actually cut the sleeves of your Ex’s jackets –you didn’t -- you’re joking – well no I didn’t, but wish to hell I had.”

“Quiet, everybody. Barbara’s here for the order. One, two, three, four, five, six Rhubarb & Honey Surprises, please.”

Ruby lifted the folder and some sheets fell out.

“Put them on the table. Let’s have a wee look,” said Barbara, peeking over her shoulder.

Ruby wasn’t so sure, “Maybe we should just put them behind the counter. Someone’s bound to come looking for them.”

“Look, it’s Jilly O’Connor’s file. I went to school with her little sister. She won’t mind.”
Barbara didn’t need an excuse. “We can always pretend we haven’t read it.”

So they sorted the pages in order and start reading about the goings on in the local Creative Writers Class.

My Creative Writing Class
By Jilly O’Connor
(All characters in this piece are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.)

If you go down to Room B6 at 11 o’clock on a Thursday, you’re in for a big surprise. The College prospectus lists it as Class CW64, but we are not just a number. We are The Creative Writers Incorporated.

We are an assembly, a gathering, a coven, a think tank, a collective talent. We weave verbs, adjectives and nouns into stories that thrill, make you laugh, make you cry, make you wonder or take you on magical mystery tours. We use full stops to terminate ramblings, commas to sex up our sentences and question marks to heighten expectation. In other words:-

We write the stories the whole world reads: love, laughter and daring deeds!
J K Rowlins, Charlie Dickens, Billy Shakespeare, eat your hearts out.

Hold on a minute –Very sorry, my mistake; that’s the Primary three class. At the Writing for Pleasure class we chat, have coffee and write the odd story. When I say odd, I mean odd - really odd.

“Quiet everybody, here comes the teacher!”

Enter Jenny Farr dressed in red top, combats, trainers, carrying a bicycle pump and a copy of the Fair Employment act. It’s all packed into a blue wickerwork plastic carrying bag. We think she’s great and sometimes we tell her so, but more often we make rude comments about her hair.

“Hi everybody.” She’s always very cheerful, but why shouldn’t she be. She only has to boil the kettle, while we have to think up stories about the crazy subjects she comes up with.

“I thought today we’d write a poem entitled ‘Fly on the Wall.’

Bloom’n fly on the wall? What’s she on about this week?

"Sorry, Jenny, we’ve all got Writers` Block."

If you’re French you could say – en masse or en block.
If you drive a car it’s more like a 10-mile tailback, type Block.

Then, simultaneously and without consultation, the Creative Writers Incorporated decide to buy some time.

Freda, who wears a peculiar line in knitted sleeveless cardigans, appears from under the desk “Jenny, about this here fly. Is it a big one like a Blue Bottle or just a wee housefly? What exactly do you mean, Jenny.” Can it see and hear?”

Maurice, who has recently been dubbed a Saga lout by the local paper after he was barred from the Help the Aged premises for over age drinking, asks, “What’s with the bicycle pump?”

Jenny perks up. “Trust you, Maurice, to spot the pump. Well it’s not what you think. I didn’t peddle here today on a twenty- year- old Chopper or even a dropped handlebar racing bike with fifty Stormy Archer gears. You won’t believe me when I tell you.”

Good thinking, that guy. She’s hooked.

“My best friend gave me a blow-up Husband for Christmas.”

Gob smacked chorus of “We don’t believe it.”

Christine, Chloe, Lindsay and others whose names I can’t remember break into song.

"Tell us more, tell us more, do you love and adore?”

Jenny, now regretting she had opened her big mouth, starts to explain.

“On Christmas night he had drink taken and I was carrying him up to the nuptial bed when a piece of holly got stuck in his posterior. He made this hissing noise, flew out of my arms, whizzed round the light three times and fell on his back at the bottom of the stairs.

Remembering the nursery rhyme, I tried to fix him up with vinegar and brown paper followed by mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but it didn’t work. I finally found my puncture repair kit and plonked the biggest patch I could find on his bare bottom. I used a bit too much glue so my fingers kept sticking to his bum. As soon as I got one free, another would get stuck. His limp arms and legs hung down and flapped around as I tried to shake him off.

I just hoped the wee oddball peeping Tom from next door was not looking as he might report me for GBH; Gluing a Blow-up Human. How would I explain that to a judge? I’ll be on some sex register for years and banned from blowing up men? To cut a long story short, I need the pump to get him back up to his full six foot two. Convert him from a flat pack to a six pack.”

“Jenny, about this fly on the wall – give us a clue to get started.”

“Well maybe the fly sees or hears something like, a Puma dressed in a tutu dancing on an elephant’s back, or a Sugar Plum Fairy chatting up a Banshee. Just let your mind run riot.”

A few pens start writing others start and then scratch out and stop.

Romily announces she has written a poem about Jenny’s Red Top and would like to read it now, right now. If Romily says right now, it means right now.

Great, another diversion. Romily’s poems are fantastic with extraordinary imagery.

“Ok, let’s hear it.”

Sunrise no star
Ocean afar
High cotton thick
Black hands pick
Spin spun
Knit run
Workers sew
Make some dough
Shop model winks
Purse clinks
Red top
Bee bop
Suits you Madam
Suits you suits you


Spontaneous round of applause.

Jenny puts on her best school teacher’s voice. “Ok, settle down. You’ve got 20 minutes while I go and get the kettle filled.”

Scribble scribble, loads of drivel.

Twenty minutes later the class starts reading out their literary masterpieces.

Electra who has something of a dark side reads a poem about a starving fly. It's hiding behind a gas cylinder in an operating theatre hoping there might be bits left over from a sex change operation.

Emily who might be a member of a line- dancing team reads a short poem about a Bluebottle that likes country music. It only stops buzzing around when Ken Bruce from Down Town Radio is switched on.

Cathy, the grandmother of the group, reads a piece about a sad house fly that lived in a cupboard under the stairs. A strange woman kept creeping in and taking a photograph out of a big box and crying. The fly understood her grief as its best mate had been splattered when the photo box had been dropped on the floor.

Dear gentle Edith reads a lovely little poem about a baby in the delivery suite. It peeps out of the womb, spots the bright lights and big monster people and decides it’s more fun back inside, except someone’s pulled the plug and drained the swimming pool.

Rapturous applause greets each of these poems.

Dear God, I’m next. How do they think up all these brilliant poems? I have to read out this rubbish. “Please Miss FARR the poem what I wrote is just terrible – I can’t write poems. I’d rather be locked in a box full of maggots, spiders and snakes and look for meal tickets. I’m not a creative writer. Get me out of here!”

But Jenny is awfully nice. She is always very encouraging. “I’m sure it will be brilliant. You are all brilliant and could easily write dozens of poems and hundreds of best sellers.”

Reluctantly, take off glasses and read.

Fly in the eye
Flea in the ear
Writers block
No shock
Seeks fly
Catch eye
Take that
No splat
Take that
No splat
Take that
Big splat
Write the stuff
See you FARR Enough


There was a loud knock at the door. A nose and face could be seen pressed hard against the glass. The eyes were screwed up looking to see if anyone was inside.

“It’s Jilly. Quick pass me the file.”

Barbara held up the file and opened the door.

“Thank God you have it, I’ve searched everywhere. You guys didn’t look inside by any chance? The last thing I want is people reading the rubbish I write.”

“No no. We’re too busy clearing up”

“Good.” She grabbed the file and was gone.

“You know something, Rubbs? I think we’ll change the name of that lot to “The Oddballs.”

Well that’s the news from the Cream Bun café, where, if it’s not one thing it’s another. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, the salad sandwiches are just a wee bit soggy.

Other tales from Auntie Barbara’s Cream Bun Café on Writing.com can be found at
http://Writing.Com/authors/askpaddy
Lightning Romance
Monday Ministers
Sticky Kiss
Sorry Just isn't Good Enough