Ketchup.

Ketchup. Will there be enough ketchup? One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, 10, 11, 12. Including himself there would be 13 sitting for dinner this evening. But, would there be enough ketchup?

He knew he enjoyed a generous dollop, but a generous dollop was considered a bit crude in these new circles. Nevertheless, he squoze a generous dollop from the bottle onto a slice of Mothers Pride. A test measure. Five servings at best. He needed more.

He watched the fading light of autumn from the kitchen window. A handful of windfall plums lew below the plum tree.

With a little water in a large aluminium pan the plums boiled vigorously for 10 minutes. A tray of 12 ice cubes helped the plums cool more fastly. He removed the stones. He was a sculpturist. With his stone mason sized hands he finely chopped an onion and a few cloves of garlic into a diced pulp. When they had caramelised he poured them from the frying pan into the large 16” aluminium stewing pot and brought the mixture to a boil once again. 100 degrees Celsius. Three times 5 Fluid Ounce spoonfuls of vinegar. A stone mason’s handful of soft brown sugar. Cinamon and almost half a 30CL bottle of Worcestshire sauce. Reduced to a thick syrup and allowed to cool once again.

Opening the front door he looked at all the synchronised TV flickering windows. It was dark now, but never half light. Days turned into Orange lit monochrome evenings here. He had a mad auntie who used to live on a similar static home site. She claimed to live in Stratford upon Avon. Truth was she lived on the outskirts of Bromsgrove in a crap caravan. He hadn’t invited Bill and Sue Roman from number 27.

On a Post-it note he wrote ‘1’. One variety as opposed to the 57 tomato. Plum ketchup was his only variety. The ketchup was poured into a wine bottle and the Post-it note stuck on front. Yellow on black looked cool.

Bill and Sue Roman lived at number XXVII. They hadn't been invited.

The deep fat fryer was being held steady at the perfect temperature. He wasn't sure what that equated to in numbers. All he knew was that if the raw chip floated and fizzled it was the perfect temperature. The circular table was set.

He took head of the table at XII o'clock. Opposite at XI was 'Portrait of a Young Woman IV' – polished granite with inlaid gold. Bob would sit at IX o'clock and Sue opposite him at III. At V and IV o'clock sat 'Gemini' – Two small busts carved from limestone. At X o'clock was 'The Angel' – an angel carved in milky marble. XI, 'Study of a Bull' – a study carved in plaster. I and II o'clock featured 'Saturn and Venus' – abstracts in marble. VII, 'Portrait of a Young Woman X' – a cast in bronze. VIII, 'Portrait of My Family' – carving in limestone.

The doorbell chimed.

Everyone agreed that plum ketchup was the perfect accompaniment to deep fried haddock, chips and mushy peas.

Bob Roman led an entire legion of coffee machine sales people. For every machine sold he received €360. He then received a commission of 33% on every replacement cartridge sold there after. He was stinking rich.

"How many statues have you sold" asked Bob.

He said "he wasn't sure, but not many".

"I'm surprised you don't sell lots, they're beautiful" said Sue.

"It's all about numbers" said Bob. "Simple as that. Numbers".


The following morning he placed 'Portrait of a Young Woman IV' on the plinth on the small lawn in front of Bob and Sue's static home. He packed all other work into a trailer and dropped the keys to door through the letter box as instructed by his mad auntie.

Dave and Sally lived at number 25. Their garden was immaculate. It featured many gnomes and water features. Dave came outdoors to say goodbye. "Sorry we didn't make it last night" he said, "the wife brought home fsh & chips. We don't really go in for that fancy arty food to be honest".

"No problem, another time maybe. Do you take ketchup with your fish & chips?" he asked.

"Nah. Sacrilege" replied Dave. "You off then?".

"Yep. Any munite now. It's all in the numbers according to Bob".

"Bollocks" said Dave. "Numbers are nothing without context. They're simply symbols. It's words what count. Words count for more than numbers ever could".

That's not a bad point really. He pondered all the way down the M6 and M1 home.