David E Balaam - Columbus Day

By the time George got back to the lounge, Christopher had set-up the Wii console and one of the PC screens. George hadn’t bought a TV yet but planned to put one on the wall opposite the computer room. Provisions for a wall TV had been made during the renovations, and the connector socket was the only thing visible on the white wall.

"I’ll leave the laptop to you to set-up, dad. Looks a great system. Did you get a good deal?"

"Yes it is, and yes I did as matter of fact," but not expanding on the details, or reason as to why he wanted a completely new computer system. There was, in fact, no real mystery. Technology changes rapidly these days, and for both business and pleasure George also wanted to keep up-to-date, and he did not feel like using the laptop or server the police had taken and pulled apart over the last twelve months. Anyway, it had been three years since his last upgrade, so with a shopping list, he visited his specialist PC supplier and ordered a completely new system, built to his own specifications.

"What’s it to be old man . . ."

George took the bait and gave his son a clenched fist tap on the shoulder.

"If that’s all you’ve got then I'm going to thrash you old man."

"Any more of the old man and you won’t be fit to drive anywhere."

Christopher loaded the game and they took hold of the plastic Wii paddles, one in each hand.

"This is going to get warm old . . ." Christopher stopped in mid-sentence, "sorry, dad, so I suggest we disrobe."

"I can take the heat even if you can’t. Let’s do it." But Christopher had removed his T-shirt and jeans and stood ready for action in his boxer shorts. They took position in front of the screen.

"Round 1…go!" He shouted, and the two men started to box.

The rules are much the same as in real boxing, and after three minutes the bell went.

"Nearly had you then, old man."

"Don’t get cocky son, it's early days. George wiped some perspiration from his brow. "Perhaps I will take off the shirt."

Christopher winced at his dad’s naked torso but thought he looked all right for a guy of fifty-five.

"OK, let’s get serious."

'Round two' came the announcement.

Another three minutes and the bell went again.

"That can’t be three minutes," Christopher complained. "I nearly had you on the ground."

"Save your energy son or I will take you in the next round," George said in all seriousness. "I know what’s missing – music."

"OK. But only if I choose." Chris insisted.

"Sorry son, house rules. My house, my music."

George darted over to the sideboard where he had left the iPod from the previous evening and turned it on. It was still plugged into the small but powerful speaker and the room was suddenly filled with music – one of his favourites, Giraffe Walk by Mr Scruff and the Quantic Soul Orchestra – great rhythm for boxing.

Back in position in front of the screen, George and Christopher started round three.

They had all the moves. Ducking a left hook, blocking a right hook, protecting the face from a barrage of blows. All carried out in good humour but with a will to win, which is inbred in all who partake of any form of games. From playground ‘conkers’ or ‘marbles,’ through to any competitive activity – the goal was to win, no matter if it was your son or your dad you were playing. Now the music was kicking in. The rhythm of the tune made each of them more confident with every blow. Father and Son – playing together. George enjoying life, probably for the first time in over two years, without a care in the world.

To anyone watching them, they were in fact, shadow boxing.

And what made the scene even more curious, if the casual observer could not see the computer screen from a certain angle, was the sight of two half-naked men punching the air and shouting unrecognisable words above the loud music.

This was the scene that greeted Senora Rosa Torres. She stood dumb-struck, jaw dropped, looking in disbelief at the scene before her. Senora Torres had made her way up the winding iron steps on the side of the house that leads to the terrace, instead of walking up the sloping driveway to the front door on the other side. She was a little out of breath as it was, having walked from the end of the lane where the bus had dropped her off, and climbing the steps to where she now was. All manner of thoughts were racing through her mind, from "What in God’s name is going on?" to "Have I come to the right house?"

She finally came out of her shocked trance and started to tap on the patio glass doors, which were locked. Tapping was not working. She clenched her fist and rapped her knuckles on the glass even harder. "Hola, Hola," she called out, but no one could hear her. She shook her head and sighed, as people do who have given up on their quest. She picked up her shopping bag, turned, and descended the iron steps and back along the road to the bus stop, to take her back to sanity.

As round three finished George instinctively turned towards the patio doors. "Did you hear anything, Chris?"

"Only you huffing and puffing," he said with glee.

George walked over to the sliding doors and opened them, allowing the music to escape into the midday air, and into the lives of whoever was in earshot.

"Probably nothing." George left the doors open and returned to the game.

"This has gone on for too long. Want to call it a draw and go get a drink?"

"Dad, I don’t believe what I’m hearing. You are capitulating?" Christopher was ecstatic.

"No, not capitulating at all. I said call it a draw." George replied, trying to sound sincere.

"Whatever, old man," Chris shrugged, secretly relieved, "as long as you’re buying lunch."

George took a quick shower and changed his shirt. Christopher sprayed himself in a large quantity of his dad’s deodorant and dressed again in his own jeans and T-Shirt.

Ten minutes later they were ready to go. "Hell!" George was at the front door. "I don’t know where the house keys are."

"Hardly anything to take here," Chris said sarcastically, trying to hurry his dad along.

George looked hurt. "Apart from my cherished possessions, there is the PC and Wii," he exclaimed while looking thoughtful. "I’ll give Carlos a ring, he will know."

"Didn’t Carlos leave a note in the kitchen or something?" Christopher remembered.

"Of course." George headed for the kitchen.

He saw the yellow sticky note, which was partly hidden behind a jar of coffee. ‘The cleaning lady is coming at 12.00 o’clock. Her name is Senora Rosa Torres.’

"Damn." George looked at his watch. 12.45. "I wonder if she’s coming."

He opened the kitchen drawers. Various cutlery and a bottle opener. "Handy," he thought to himself, "but not what I need right now."

"Hmm, dad, these look like door keys." Christopher was standing at the other end of the lounge jangling a bunch of keys.

"Where were they for heaven's sake?"

"On that small table in the hall, under the shrine." Christopher was pointing in the direction of the Picador lances mounted on the wall.