A Clever Use of Bins (1/2) By Frankie Lassut An uplifting, 'ultimate' romance fantasy.

(1/2), (2/2).

Colin was the world's most romantic man, it was official. Well, ok. His wife, Jean, had written into the local radio station, Hull Online, and told the presenter guy what he did for her i.e. washing up, ironing, rubbed her feet, was always telling her how lovely she looked (especially each time she bought a new dress), took her out for meals regularly etc. She had won hands down. One woman from a different part of town had written in on greasy chip paper, and said 'my ubby takes me darn the tip every Saterday and we shoots rats wiv the air rifle. Vats ded romantic like, innit?' No.

Her/their prize (Colin and Jean) was a bottle of champagne, and dinner for two in a posh Hull restaurant. While they were eating, he asked her what she would really like. What was the most romantic thing she could think of that he could do for her? She thought... As she was thinking, he suggested ... 'How about I apply for a sixty minute makeover for the house?'

'No thanks. Our house is nice. And anyway, you're not supposed to tell me!' 'We could go to Egypt, drive into the desert at night, and look at the stars as we fall to sleep. There's no light out there to lighten the black sky you know' 'Hmmm, that's sounds good. Tell you what though.' 'What?' 'Fly me to the moon.' 'What?'

'Fly me to the moon Let me sing among those stars Let me see what spring is like On Jupiter and Mars ..?' 'Ok' he said, and started to wonder. Six weeks later, she went to see her mother in Dorset for two weeks, while he stayed behind to work. As she taxied off to the rail station and was lost to sight, he got on the phone to the local council... Incidentally, he had taken two weeks and three days off work 'Hello. I was wondering if you could do me a favour please. My wife wants me to fly her to the moon, so I'll be needing ...

Lordy, lordy. Did he work hard for the two weeks, and now he was looking forward to three days of ultimate romance; and to be honest, he just finished as her taxi pulled up. She climbed out of the vehicle, and her mouth dropped open. In her back garden was a one hundred foot rocket made from extra, extra large industrial metal bins that had been welded together. He had painted it white, and wrote Apollo 2008 on the side. It was a fabulous construction (that's what he'd ordered from the council. He had paid of course, and got permission to build Apollo 2008). There was also a massive crane! So massive that the top of it was up in the clouds.

He came out of the house laughing and greeted her. 'What on earth!?' she exclaimed. 'Remember what you said you'd really like?' he replied. That night they sat there watching a DVD, hugging each other. 'Are you ready for your trip to the moon?' he asked. 'When?' she asked in return. 'Tomorrow afternoon. One O'clock.' 'Ready as I'll ever be.' she replied.

The next afternoon, they wrapped up warm. She was curious about not wearing a spacesuit. Wouldn't they need oxygen? What was the crane for? Why wasn't the fuel sending clouds of dry ice down the side of the rocket? Blimey, weren't those bins big!? The dustbin men would never have touched them. He told her not to worry and to start climbing to the top bin, which housed 'her' seat, which he had made from a leather armchair he'd got from a charity shop. It was one of those chairs with a headrest, and the foot rest you could push out. He had also tilted it backwards so she could see out of the window.

He had spared no luxury for the woman he loved. He went up first, using the bin handles to climb up the side of the rocket. He had of course welded on some spare handles to make it easier. He reached the top bin, and opened the door in the side of it. She was close behind him, and climbed in. She sat in the armchair. Ahhhh, it was comfy. She could also see the sky from the window he'd put in the top pointed bit, which he had made from aluminium sheet. He kissed her goodbye, for now. He then climbed down the handles, and entered the fourth bin up. Inside was a bike. He had greatly modified the chain (which had been massively lengthened) and gearing system, which led to a second hand, antique shop wooden propeller in the bottom bit; or bottom bin.

The propeller came from a Spitfire or some similar plane and it was large, weighing in at 112lbs, but he had managed to fit it in position, with the help of a couple of friends. Colin climbed onto the bike. It has to be said that he was fairly fit, as he biked 40 miles every Sunday, on his racer, so the task in hand wasn't quite so formidable.

He was aware that he would use a lot of drinking water on the flight, and so he had built shelves around the inside of the bin, which gave support to numerous bottles of water which were fed to his mouth through a very complicated straw and valve system which only he could ever understand; boy, he was clever was Colin. He also had tables of sandwiches, and bowls of boiled potatoes and bananas for energy, on the same tables, within easy reach of the bike. He would be hydrated and energised for the massive task in hand. No task which led to love and the satisfaction of the woman he loved was too great.

Colin then placed his intentional mind on the task, and the utter pleasure attached to its challenge and completion. Sometimes a man (or a woman) has to do something they thought they couldn't, in order to thrill themselves and someone they love: there lies aftermath contentment. That's Life. And thank fuck that's what it is. Such was the brilliant gearing design, Colin had to work hard, but not so hard as to destroy him. He pedalled ... His wife's chair vibrated and the whole rocket shook. There was, however, no fire and smoke from underneath it ...yet.

The grass around the bottom of the rocket was knocked sideways with the wind. The propeller was spinning. The extended, elongated bike chain went an oily crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr around the well oiled gears, and the propeller went faster and faster ...until ... The rocket began to rise! And rise it did, by the astonishing rate of twenty five feet a minute! Colin pedalled and pedalled, and one of his luxuries, an LCD screen on the handlebars attached to a camera in the propeller bin, showed him how far he had travelled, which he judged by how small everyone on the ground was getting; he had attracted quite a crowd! The Robins wouldn't have such a big crowd today at Craven Park.

He had slowly travelled many thousands of feet, and a while and several bottles of water, and several beef sandwiches and bowls of energy giving complicated carb potatoes, and several bananas later, he switched screen to the camera outside of the 'West' bin door. Oh good, the crane was still there, and it was now starting to get dark. Perfect. The propeller hummed that aeroplane hum, although it was travelling much faster than it would be if it were fitted to a Spitfire, such was the genius of Colin's gearing and chain system. He had also fitted a rather non advanced, basic communications system.

It consisted of a series of vacuum cleaner tubes with a funnel at each end. His was fixed to his handlebars. He spoke into it. 'Hello Jean, can you hear me? Over and out' 'Erm, yes Roger, sorry, Colin. Loud and clear. Over and out.' (hers was fitted to the arm of her chair). 'Yes. Good. I think it's getting dark now, and we're about to enter the clouds. So, if water vapour starts running down your window, don't worry. Over and out.' 'Roger Colin, over and out'.

Continued ...(2/2)

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