When not overly dramatising his existence, Fatty Hargreaves had a few pleasures in life. He liked to read a book now again, he had a favourite television programme and he even went to the football once in a blue moon. His main pleasure, however, was eating. He loved it like anyone else but a million times more.

Fatty Hargreaves loved the feeling of eating, the sense of satisfaction. He loved the sense of belonging, of being wanted and, above all, he loved the attention lavished upon him by a gigantic cake or some such sweetness. His daily eating routine began with a bowl of porridge. Thick, grey and salty was the muck that he smothered in runny honey and stuffed down like a pig at the trough. This would be followed by a cup of Argentine White Tea, smelling of dirty water and tasting worse, it both woke him up and chastised him at the same time, which was what he felt he needed at this time of the morning. He would then tuck into sixteen croissants, ten pain au chocolate and a generously generous fried Scottish breakfast with extra Haggis, extra bacon, extra sausage and four very runny poached eggs.

Suitably awake and full to the brim with messy squelch in his stomach, Fatty Hargreaves’ next move was up into the bathroom to clean his teeth, the mere action of which was a ticking clock of his existence. Every morning and every night he found himself staring into his own eyes, white foam drooling from his slack jaws, wondering on what gorgeous pleasures were in store for the coming day or how lucky he had been to manage to get through the last few hours on the scant rations he survived on. Fatty Hargreaves liked to clean his teeth. It reminded him of eating.
Next, he would dress. What he would choose to wear depended solely on what was nearest to him and as everything he owned was brown, he generally wore that colour. He was not a well dressed man. He was not even a badly dressed man. Indeed, if one were pushed to describe his sartorial condition one would best be served by the words ‘barely dressed man’, so large was his body that he couldn’t find clothes that fit him. The ones he did have stretched to within an inch of their lives when he pulled them over his bulging bulk.

Once dressed, he was ready to go. Although today his appointment was for eleven o’clock. It was now eight o’clock so that meant two, no wait, three hours to go. Fatty Hargreaves sat grimly at his grimy kitchen table and waited. He didn’t move a muscle for hours except to shovel some tasty morsel into his mouth. On twenty minutes he was startled by a car door slamming outside and shifted his weight slightly from one buttock to the other. His eyes, glazed like those of a stuffed bear, did nothing. They just blinked every thirty seconds. Quite literally, every thirty seconds on the dot, it was quite unnatural and anyone who had seen it first hand would have proclaimed it so. Although had anyone been there he wouldn’t have done it, distracted as he’d have been by their very presence, the noise of their interminable breathing would have shattered his concentration to the point where the minutes would have been hours, the hours days and the days, well the days would have just gone on forever. Fatty Hargreaves lived alone simply because he liked to live alone.

Fatty Hargreaves made his way down the brightly lit corridor, dull pictures of horses galloping in fields and children sniffing flowers hung on the walls, the quiet hum of doctor-patient conversation drifted under the doors of the offices as he passed by. Eventually, after much huffing and puffing Fatty Hargreaves arrived at the door that belonged to his doctor. He paused and then, full of expectation, he read the sign on the door, ‘Seven – Dr Lividity Bloom’. He knocked.
“Come in.” called out a female voice. Fatty Hargreaves sighed, opened the door and entered.
“Mr Fatty Hargreaves, so happy to see you again.” said the tall blonde haired woman sat at the desk. “What can we do for you today?” She continued in a tone that indicated she didn’t really much care for what she could do for him today but, instead, how fast she get this horrible fatty man out of her office.

Fatty Hargreaves hovered close to the door, his head buried shyly in the folds of his neck. “Please, sit down Mr Fatty Hargreaves.” She said, indicating a small ornage plastic chair. He made his way happily over to the vacant chair placed at Dr Bloom’s left and plumped himself down. The chair buckled slightly under his bulk.
“So, what seems to be the trouble?” asked the doctor, smiling at him.
“Well,” he began, “a spot of the usual trouble.” Dr Bloom sighed and as she did so her shoulders wrenched up a couple of inches.
“Mr Fatty Hargreaves, every Wednesday you come here and every Wednesday you tell me the trouble is, I quote, ‘a spot of the usual trouble’, and as much as I would love to be able to help you with ‘the usual trouble’, I don’t ever recall an occasion when you have actually informed me what ‘a spot of the usual trouble’ is.”
She sat back with a look of frustration bursting out of her face. “Do you think you could tell me now?” she asked, leaning forward slightly.

Fatty Hargreaves steadied himself, he was finally ready to tell Dr Bloom his problem. He did this every week and it never quite seemed to pass his lips, but he always tried. He shuffled nervously, desperately trying to get the words out of his mouth, to unburden himself of his heavy soul, but it did not come and he slumped back into his chair. Dr Bloom sighed and leaned in close to Fatty Hargreaves. She clasped her hands together and hissed through clenched teeth, “Listen, you fatty horrible man, you come in here every week and waste my time, there are genuinely sick people sitting in that waiting room and you come in here and sit there flabbing about and you can’t even tell me what’s wrong with you. I think that there’s nothing at all wrong with you. Nothing a few salads couldn’t fix anyway. Unless you tell me, I must insist that you never darken my door again.”
She sat back triumphantly. Fatty Hargreaves reeled in terror. The thought of not being able to come here anymore almost made him throw up on the spot. Somewhere deep down he realised the time had now come to air his problem in public. He gasped for breathe and then in a burst of speech that would leave him gasping for more, he blurted out, “I love you.” He slumped over in his chair and began to blub.
“There, there,” said a not remotely surprised Dr Bloom. She reached over and passed him a tissue. Once Fatty Hargreaves had collected himself sufficiently to understand speech she said, “This is a very common problem and I know it seems difficult but I think I may have a solution for you. Do you really love me?” she asked, suddenly becoming very, very serious.
“Yes, I do,” said Fatty Hargreaves, fresh tears welling up in his eyes. Dr Bloom nodded, leaned over and opened a drawer in her desk. She reached in and took something out and handed it to Fatty Hargreaves. He realised that it was a small white card with a name written on it - Gottfried Bottoms, Chemist – it said.
“Go and see that man. He’ll be able to help you. If you feel the same once you’ve been to see him, we’ll discuss it further.” said Dr Bloom, her beautiful mouth smiling at him slightly.
“But there’s no address,” whimpered Fatty Hargreaves. “Do you love me?”
“You’ll find it, no problem at all. Goodbye, Mr Fatty Hargreaves,” said Dr Bloom, turning to her computer and closing down his file. Fatty Hargreaves felt quite good, he had finally told her and she hadn’t given him the brush-off. There was hope. He stood up, straighter than he had in many a year, and wobbled out of the office, up the corridor and out of the surgery. He made his way into the street and began to look for the man whose name was on the little white card his darling doctor had given him.

Fatty Hargreaves was standing in a small scruffy shop. An enormous black cat was lying sprawled out on a wooden counter top. It eyed him suspiciously but didn’t bother to move. Fatty Hargreaves waited for a while longer then he spotted a small bell partially hidden by the cat. He walked over and picked up the bell. He rang it and the cat shot out a claw and scratched him on the wrist. A deep long red line welled with blood and Fatty Hargreaves jumped back in pin. He waited and waited. Eventually the cat got up and jumped off the counter, made its way over to the far corner of the room, curled into a ball and went back to sleep. Fatty Hargreaves waited a while longer and then, where the cat had been lying, he spotted a small sign. He went over and read what it had to say for itself, it said, ‘Please do not ring the ball, it irritates the cat and may mean that your wait is extended.’ Fatty Hargreaves sighed deeply but he continued to wait.

Eventually a small, shrivelled little old man appeared through a door that Fatty Hargreaves had not previously noticed. The little old man limped toward the counter, only realising halfway there that he had forgotten to close the door behind him. He shook his head angrily, turned around and limped back across the room to the troublesome door which he closed with a slam. Once this task had been completed he turned and made his way slowly back to the counter where Fatty Hargreaves stood nervously.

Once at the counter he drew himself up to his full height and though barely able to see Fatty Hargreaves because his full height was not very high but his counter was, he bellowed in the manner of one who had forgotten to turn on his hearing aid, “Hello, young Fat Sir, I am Gottfried Bottoms, Chemist.” he pause. “And what can I do for you?”
Fatty Hargreaves eyed the little old man with a vague sense of wonderment. Quite why a man of such bizarre appearance, with his right eye all milky, slight hunch and gappy yellow teeth, would inspire wonderment in Fatty Hargreaves was quite beyond him. The chemist looked at Fatty Hargreaves impatiently, “Well?” he screeched, “Out with it, I don’t have all day.”
“I was sent here by my doctor. Dr Bloom?” offered Fatty Hargreaves.
“Ah, a fine woman,” replied the chemist, a wisty look of contentment crossing his face. “Did she explain me to you?”
“Not really. Well, not in any depth. She just told me you could help me.”
“And indeed I can, for that is what I do. Help people. That is my lot in life. And, once again, young Fat Sir, how can I help you?” The chemist was now becoming visibly impatient.
“I’m in love with her. Dr Bloom, I mean. I love her,” gulped Fatty Hargreaves. The old man raised an eyebrow but said nothing, he gestured with his left arm for Fatty Hargreaves to go on. “I don’t want to live without her,” he continued.
The old man said nothing, he just looked Fatty Hargreaves up and down, turned his back, limped slowly over to the door and disappeared out of the room without a word.

Fatty Hargreaves, once again, waited. And waited. And waited. After about an hour or so there was still no sign of the chemist returning and Fatty Hargreaves was now becoming a little bit annoyed.
“Hello?” ventured Fatty Hargreaves, cautiously. Nothing. “Hello,” he said again, this time a touch of his annoyance betrayed. “Excuse me, I’ve been here for...” he began only to be cut off as the yellow door creaked open slightly and a voice bellowed out, “You’re excused. Come back tomorrow. Come back about ten o’clock.” The door slammed shut. Fatty Hargreaves sighed and left the shop.

The enormous black cat looked curiously out of the shop window. She knew that people couldn’t see in because she would often pull faces and make obscene feline gestures at passers-by and always get away with it. The cat’s name was John, Paul, George & Ringo. Quite how she came to be called this she didn’t know but she was quite partial to it. She felt it lent her an air of distinction. She’d always like double-barrelled names, names that imbued their carriers with undeserved levity.

John, Paul, George & Ringo was looking out at the strange fat man who she had hurt yesterday. H was standing nervously outside the shop. John, Paul, George & Ringo shrugged, as if she were shaking away a fly, and made her way over to the counter, jumped up and promptly went to sleep. It was opening time.

Gottfried Bottoms, Chemist shuffled a small pile of papers, banged them on the table in an attempt to make the pile more presentable. It was a vain attempt because inspiration would hit him at various times and in various places and he didn’t keep the same size sheets of paper in every room. So the task of trying to have a nice, neat, same-sized pile of papers was going to be nigh-on impossible. The chemist stood up and limped his way painfully across the room. A small dimly lit hovel, newspapers piled in skyscraper like stacks surrounded the walls, a sheaf of half finished crosswords lay in the middle of the floor, dinner plates thick with dead flies congealed in the corners like eagle eyed sentinels awaiting their second coming. Picking his way through these and other equally decorative items was becoming more of a struggle every day for the chemist and he wondered to himself just how much longer he could carry on this dreadful existence.
As he limped past the sheaf of crosswords, something caught his milky eye and in a moment of pure inspiration he leaned down and picked up the one from the top. He scanned it and loudly announced. “You little bugger!” and made his way over to the table, picked up a pen and in the only blank spaces left he wrote the words ‘Humphrey Bogart’. He did a little dance and then triumphantly ripped the crossword into pieces, scattering them indiscriminately on the floor. ‘Four years,’ he thought, ‘and it was bloody Bogart all the time.’

He decided the fat man had waited outside long enough and opened the door connecting his rooms to the shop. He limped slowly through the doorway. There was no-one there. Where was the fat man? Everyone always turned up on time for their second visit. Only after that would they be late. He was supposed to be the one who kept people waiting. Then the awful truth hit him, he’d forgotten to unlock the front door of the shop earlier.
‘Bugger’ he thought. ‘What to do now?’ Did he leave the fat man stood in the street in the hope that he’d go away and return later on when the shop had been properly opened?
Gottfried Bottoms, Chemist was not used to this kind of humiliation. He had suffered humiliation in his life and it was mostly water off a duck’s back, but to be humiliated in front of a customer was unthinkable. He shrugged, resigned to the embarrassment, walked over to the front door and unlocked it. The fat man was waiting outside and the chemist sheepishly gestured for him to enter.

In the middle of the counter was a button. A small sign hovered above it in mid-air, ‘PRESS HERE’ and an arrow pointed at the button.
“Press that.” said the Chemist, sounding as uninterested as he could. Fatty Hargreaves did as he was directed and pressed the button. His head swirled in a way that he had never experienced before, but he felt no fear. The room began to swirl.
“I think you’re going to like this, young Fat Sir.” said Gottfried Bottoms, Chemist. “I think you’re going to like it a lot.” Fatty Hargreaves felt as though he was being turned inside out. His stomach churned and bubbled, his skin crawled like a million ants and then he blew up like a big balloon and popped noisily into nothingness. The Chemist had been wrong, Fatty Hargreaves hadn’t liked it one bit.
The Chemist smiled sadly to himself and muttered, “Told you you’d like it. Silly fat man.”

Dr Melody Bloom was quite pleasantly surprised to never see Fatty Hargreaves ever again. She really couldn’t stand large bulbous men who smelled of breakfasts and sick. ‘Urgh! Disgusting!’ she thought as she lay in her bed with Gottfried Bottoms, Chemist all tucked up beside her. All gone, Fatty Hargreaves, all gone!

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