Writers in Touch

Eternal Love or Something

It’s just typical of you, this. You never noticed anything, did you? I could have stood on me head, naked, in a bucket of blancmange and you’d have just said ‘Pass the remote, love.’ Remember that time when you got left to take the kids to your Auntie Seraphina’s wedding because of me haemorrhoids and our Hayley had her skirt in her knickers in all the photos. Typical of you that. And of your family an’ all. Not one person thought to put her straight. You never used to notice when I’d got a new hairdo, or any time I’d got a fancy frock on. Never notice it was time to paint the fence or pump up me tyres on me bike. And what about that time when the back bumper of the caravan caught on that old boy’s mobility scooter? Twenty seven miles the poor old sod was strapped to us. On his way to the corner shop, he was, and ended up in ruddy Skegness. How could you not have noticed him? And now this. Did you not wonder why I’d stopped cooking your dinners and darning your socks? Or why I’d stopped arguing about wanting to watch Downton Abbey instead of the ruddy motor-racing? Had you not noticed that you’ve had to actually go into the shops yourself recently, instead of sitting in the car listening to the rugby? Why do you think you’ve had to iron your own shirts and remember to put the bin out on a Monday? And if you think I’m dancing with you at the Lindy Hop, you’ve got another think coming. I’ve kicked the bucket, you daft bugger. Not that you’d notice, eh?

Fiona Dudley