Olives

 

Olives

                                        Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Al was unhappy, cold, and miserable. How had he ended up on this pillar without a stitch of clothing, and why was he holding a gigantic wing?

The last thing he could recall was the olive eating challenge. He had just swallowed his fifty-first olive and was definitely on a winning streak. There were only thirty-five seconds left before the bell would ring to signal that time was up. He didn’t know what the prize would be, but was sure it would be something he would like. He hoped so, anyway, as he didn’t really like olives very much, but his friends had encouraged him to take part.

He was swallowing the sixtieth olive when he began to feel rather peculiar. Too late, he realised that the olives were preserved in alcohol, not brine. Combined with the several drinks he’d imbibed for Dutch courage before the contest, they had served as a sedative. He dimly remembered collapsing slowly to the floor – as with all accidents, time seemed to slow - and hearing raucous laughter and bellowed shouts of encouragement.

He chewed his fist and stared glumly at the ground. He wasn’t very high up and it would not be difficult to climb down, but modesty dictated that he remain where he was until the giggling crowd pointing at him went away.

Suddenly, a young woman pushed her way through the crowd and strode towards him. With horror, he recognised his fiancée. She was furious.

‘I knew this would happen if you let Dan organise your stag party. Some best man he is,’ she fumed. ‘I hope it was worth it. Here’s your prize,’ and she handed him an outsized jar of olives. ‘We’re getting married this afternoon, or had you forgotten? Don’t be late.’

As she turned and stormed off, Dan stepped sheepishly from behind some trees and handed Al his clothes. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he mumbled.

The crowd cheered and clapped as Al pulled on his crumpled clothes and clambered down from the pillar, swearing to himself that he would never enter another competition. He tucked the wing under his arm, wondering what use it could ever be to him. Maybe, in years to come, he and his wife would laugh about this foolish incident.

Maybe . . .