On keeping quiet

The radio played sombre music, and in between the songs the DJ was keeping it brief. Every few songs he'd say "we're sounding a little different today, for obvious reasons."

I was grateful for the soothing tones of the music, having overindulged the night before, but my housemate, Cornelius, was beginning to chafe against it. He is a creature of routine, and accustomed to eating his Coco Pops or equivalent generic supermarket alternative along to a humorous feature on the radio show called "Guess my Sandwich". Its absence was causing him some grief.

"So the Generalissimo has passed" he said "Does this mean I must be a monk? Eat in silence?"

The obvious reason as referred to by the unusually hushed tones of the DJ was the death of the beloved father of our nation, Generalissimo Juan-Manuel Featherstonehaugh. It was being reported that he had suffered a deep and profound illness after failing to digest some poor quality crab sticks. It came as no surprise to a grieving populace to learn that they were purchased in a German supermarket. Anti European sentiment was running high as a result.  

Six weeks of National Mourning had been announced; we were only on day three and already my normally equable friend was becoming irate. I considered the prospect of the remaining time with a jaundiced eye. Maybe it was time to go to sea, this had long been my back-up plan in the case of needing to get out of the house for a bit. Some might consider it extreme, but those people haven't met my parents. As they were the only other option, the sea it was.

Tentative enquiries in this area came up blank though. There were no boats going out, as our fishermen were unable to sell their fish for reasons to complex to explain in a tabloid headline. As a result, people were trying to eke out their supplies of rapidly aging seafood. This, on reflection, probably explained the crab sticks. 

"I can't cope with this" cried Cornelius, "I shall go mad", he waved his spoon to emphasise his point, and Coco Pops or their discount supermarket equivalent fell like gentle hail across the breakfast table. Some landed on my partially completed crossword, which I felt was somewhat de trop. 

I worried for my friend. In the current climate of nationalist fervour deviation from the patriotic norm was more frowned upon than usual. Such sentiments as he was voicing, while safe enough in the confines of our flat, may receive a less generous hearing in the court of public opinion. The disruption of his breakfast routine could be the first step on the path to a proper kicking.

What mercy it was, then, to hear the enticing thump of post on the door-mat. I hurried to see what had arrived, for who doesn't love getting post? There were two envelopes, one addressed to Cornelius, and one to myself. My friend grew quiet as we emptied them out. Two Government-issue black armbands, the wearing of which was mandatory over the mourning period. I relaxed slightly, this seemed to have concentrated his mind, a wearable reminder that, as my dear old Nan used to say "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." Perhaps I wouldn't need to go to sea after all.