Ban This Book!

Margaret lived alone though not by choice. She’d had a husband once but he’d fucked off, the bastard. Come to think of it she’d had a cat too. He’d also fucked off. Also, a bastard. So now she lived in an enormous house with enormous loneliness but at least she had her books. Her daughter, who Mildred struggled to believe she was related to, never mind gave birth to, was always telling her to get rid of some of them. Well, always was a bit of an exaggeration. It implied a consistency that was most certainly not her daughter’s strongpoint. Bastardette. It was a wonder that she too hadn't fucked off.

Anyway, her here she was now and nothing in her life but a big house and books. They were all around the walls of every room, on the floor like dominoes. She imagined for a minute how satisfying it would be to actually set them up like that and then tip one and they’d all flip, flip, flip down the stairs and everything. She had kept some in the cupboard under the sink for a while but they got a bit soggy. She’d made steps out of them to help her into bed, bedside table too obviously, coffee table and foot stool. Telephone table. Not that it rang. She picked it up sometimes and spoke to a very patient woman in her head, to whom she outlined why a particular book should be banned. Melons Mrs. Whatsyourname. The author described her breasts as melons. Melons are rock hard and enormous. nothing like breasts. well I suppose at a pinch, those little Gala ones, maybe if the breasts were motsly implants. They were super useful. She even had a bookcase stairs. Not actual book stairs that would be foolish. But rather used each step as a bookshelf. It was a marvellous idea and even though she had to use only the barest inch of every step to get up and down them she didn't begrudge this small inconvenience. The joys of a non standard, wider than most, extra steps staircase.
There was one huge, massive pile in the living room that was undisturbed however, except when she tossed another book onto it. The ‘Ban this Book’ pile had grown considerable over the years and a bit like her swearing, was a habit Mildred had been unable and let's face it unwilling to give up. Some books were just such utter shite. She loved the way flinging such drivel onto the pile made her feel. That’s what I think of you’ it said. Not that anybody was listening.

Despite her dislike for pretty much anyone she’d ever met, Margaret read the local paper. Once a week, whether she wanted to or not. And she had her Facebook. Twitter was a bridge too far. This particular morning was paper morning and so scowling and huffing a bit she cleared books off the conservatory table and sat down with it and her coffee and roll ups. Blah blah blah people, life, death, oh wow, shame, blah blah blah. Bike for sale. Armchair for sale. Nighties for sale. Urgh! Puke! Who'd want them? She shuddered. ‘Ban this Book Club’ was next. Not for sale but for real. ‘a club for likeminded book banning enthusiasts.’ Email: Dorothy G @ pigmail .com. Fuck me even the animals have email now. She made her trapped wind face which was as close to a smile as she got. She looked at the pile of ban books, she looked at the email address and she decided to give it a whirl, as her mother would have said. Much good it did her. Dead now. Long dead.



The thing was Margaret had decided to give up. She didn’t want to go into a home. The thought of all the drooling, cabbage smelling oldies she'd end up living with in a home, was too much. She was going to find out how to deal with her books and then walk off into the sunset. Well, hobble a bit, because she did have a bad knee. But still. Maybe these book club people could do it for her. She'd go to one meeting and if they weren’t too grating or breathed too loudly or anything, she’d stay and find out what they knew.

Meeting No.1

It was worse than she’d imagined. Someone’s house? Tick. Strained small talk? Tick. Bunch of weirdos? Tick.

-Lets make a start shall we? Simpery woman in a floral dress and matching smile.

-I’m Dorothy and you’re all welcome to BTB Club. She beamed and seemed to expect applause. A couple of the weirdos obliged. It was what you would called a smattering of applause. Smattering was a good word. She’d add it to her list.

-Ahem. Beam. Slightly forced. Oh, shit it was her turn. They were doing that god awful introduce yourself thing.

-Margaret.

-Anything you’d like to share with the group Margaret?

-No

It dragged on then. Reasons why a book could be banned. Their reasons. One woman actually cried describing how a fitness book had damaged her so much she’d had to leave her job. Margaret thought it was probably the fatness that had caused the unemployment issue. Clearly the fitness book failed to hit the mark. A shifty looking man went on at some length about how a sexually explicit book needed to be banned. Because it makes slimers like you even more angry that you’re not getting any thought Margaret. On and on it went. Boring boring boring and the most boring was the twittering giblet called Dorothy. Margaret had no idea what the others were called and no inclination to find out. She would call them Wet, Slimer, Fatgod (the man was fatter than Wet, but his book issue seemed to be religious. All religions. Except his. Newly Born Christian as her father had been prone to calling them. . As it was, she’d only remembered Dorothy's name because of a very enjoyable Wizard of Oz daydream where the house crushed Dorothy and her little dog too.

-So, that’s the basics covered. We're all agreed that meetings will be once a fortnight and we’ll take it in turns to host the meeting?

It was then that Margaret hit upon her Amazing Idea. She raised her hand tentatively. Time for the sweet older lady routine.

-I could host the next one? Dorothy’s beam grew broader and they all left shaking hands (Margaret wiped hers on her coat afterwards) and saying thanks for the soft biscuits. Wet had probably cried on them. Well, they didn’t mention the soft bit. Margaret did but in her own mind out loud.



Meeting No.2

-Come in. Come in. Just step around the books. Oh yes there are a lot of them aren’t they. I just can’t stop buying them. Charity shops mostly. The occasional gift.

This last bit was, of course a lie. No one gave Margaret gifts. Not even her mother. It all went to the poor starving children of Africa. Funny little creatures with dark skin and fly crawling eyes. She’s never understood it. The flies, not the lack of presents. Why didn't they brush them off? Her mother had been as mad as an egg.

-Margaret, will you make the tea? Dorothy was in stripes today. They didn’t suit her. Clashed with her freckles.

Go fuck yourself. That would put a pimple on her dimple wouldn't it.

-Of course Dorothy, its so wonderful to have you all here. I baked. Scones and jam everyone?

Fatgod’s ears pricked up at that bit. Maybe he should be Fatprick instead. Wet managed not to cry with gratitude and Slimer just looked like he’d jump her even though she was twice his age.

-You all go on down to the basement sitting room. I'm having work done in here.

And she guided them swiftly past the middle living room and the what was left of its wooden floor.

The idea had come to her not long after the first meeting of BTB Club. The first rule of BTB Club was don’t be a twat. Hmmmm unlikely to appreciate that. She crept down the stairs and ever so carefully locked the sitting room door. They were all so busy blathering on, enjoying their self righteous outrage, they didn't even notice. Now. To work.

The hardest part had been the ripping up of enough floorboards to make a sufficient sized hole. Wasn't the internet a marvellous thing. Just search up the thing you wanted to do and there it was, step by step. Tools she'd never heard of...pry bar, Curved Vice Finger Grips. She'd liked the sound of that. Like she could claw the floor up with her bare hands. The man in the shop had been most concerned by her list. Oh no, she said with a little laugh she'd practiced, my grandson will be doing the actual hard work. Was he fuck. Firstly he didn't exist and secondly she was a fine horse of a woman as her father used to say. Now she had less of a hole, more of a room with an edge rather than a floor.

She had the books ready and the wheelbarrow. First a bit of fun though. She tossed a couple of books from the ban pile into the hole.
-ouch screeched Wet. A book hit me on the head.
-Perhaps one to ban then? Margaret called down through the hole.
- I'm so sorry, a couple must have been dislodged as I got at my best china. She peered over the edge and smiled sweetly (Youtube videos were also excellent) at Wet, nudging a few more in with her feet.
- Everything ok up there Margaret? Dorothy was looking a little less beamy.
- All is well and all manner of things shall be well.
Margaret tipped a wheelbarrow full of ban books down to them.
-Have a look at these. They should be on the list.
-What's wrong with them Margaret? Dorothy was rubbing her head and looking definitely alarmed.
-They're shit, that's what's wrong with them. Shit. Scheisse. Crap. Poop. Wheeeeee here come some more.
The shopping trolley had been a stroke of genius.
-Oi! Fatprick had lumbered over to stare up at her. This isn't funny. I'm leaving.
Slimer had his arms around Wet and was no doubt planning on comforting her several times over later on. Dorothy had by now tried the door and realised their predicament.
After that Margaret didn't care to listen to their screeches so just laboured on, fine horse of a woman that she was. More and more and more. They tumbled down and landed with satisfying thwacks. Delighted with herself Margaret decided to throw caution to the wind and fuck any old books down there, banned or not.

Hours later she sat on the edge with her feet dangling over having a celebratory cigarette. It felt good to have purpose again. She would need a different project. If she was allowed. She was certain reading was allowed there. Lots of alone time but she wouldnt be alone. She got up flicked her glowing cigarette end into the hole. Maybe she'd start another Ban Pile. Or maybe not. She was more interested in people now.