A Writer of Sorts
xi. Hallelujah? “She always brings extra biscuits for God and makes sure there is enough tea for His cup.” She acknowledges that His cuppa does not runneth over. It just goes cold and is wasted. ________________ xii. Cold Feet They are in love it seems and planning their wedding. Alles klar until the mention of babies. She blooms and flushes and practices her clucking. The fear he feels turns his eyes dead and cold. He plans his escape. ________________ xiii. Watch An old man, arthritic and feeble pulls and aged canvas roll from his bag. He unwraps it with a wistful smile and immeasurable pride. With elegant solemnity he passes the delicate tools of his delicate trade as an heirloom - filigreed and shining - to his disinterested grandson who sees nothing but an obsolete curio. His interest only piques when he checks his smartphone and finds that antique watchmakers tools fetch a good price on eBay. ________________ xiv. Racist Shit I can see him seething. Naked contempt on every line of his face. He stares. With barely controlled rage under his breath he intones "Fucking Muslims" Their conversation falters but soon regains momentum. Louder, he repeats his oath. One of the women leans towards him and with a cheery smile says: "Actually, we're Sikhs" Silence . . . and then: "Fucking Muslims" She rolls her eyes and sighs, deciding not to give this ignorant racist prick another thought. ________________ xv. The Phone Call She soon realises that hot chocolate, even with cream, and sprinkles, * marshmallows and a flake, is not the portal to happiness she thought it might be. * Disappointed, she makes the call anyway. Her world changes.