by James A.
It's not that
I don't like the fairer sex, God knows I've
bought enough of them rings. It's just that I
find them so argumentative, snapping at the least
wee thing. It's bloody frustrating when, after a
hard day's gambling and drinking, I come home to
find an empty table in the kitchen. It's not as
if I have any money to buy my own dinner, I mean
I would have if weren't for the last fence at the
track, daft horse jumped it into it as if Henry
VIII was her jockey.
There she was,
my darling wife, hair all bunched up and a face
that looks as if she had been sucking a lemon
just as the wind changed, staring me down. 'The
oven's not working,' she tells me. The fact that
I had promised to fix it six-weeks ago was
neither here nor there. And anyway, what was
wrong with using the microwave? Apart from the
fact that I had swapped my mate it for ten fags
and a case of beer, nothing.
intoxicated, stroll home interspersed with
songs questioning the criminal activities of Phil
upstairs as well as what position Jemma at fifty-two
preferred had turned into complete
nightmare thanks to stumbles, fights (not my
fault, the songs were tuneful) and my wife's torn
face at the front door; and I was starving. I
checked the fridge and found it to be full of
nothing but space, with only a lone pint of milk
blotting the chilled landscape. I could hear the
cereal shouting at me, I loved Alpen.
When I asked
where the dry, yet tasty, breakfast snack was, 'Coco's
tray' came the answer. We had run out of cat
litter and my wife'd rather starve than have a
what you'll eat after a day on the drink. I didn't
even use a bowl.