"I'm sorry - O.K. ?" replied Trudy, "Sorry for breathing, sorry for being here, sorry for living with you, and that's a fact!"
"Fuck." muttered Carter. An appropriate enough response agreed the narrator. And more to the point who designs those silly bar codes on Cornflakes boxes? "And fuck you too" replied Trudy,glowering over the recently cremated (and once perfect) Bolognese; ruined through Carters total inability tocome to,terms with the concept of timekeeping.
The next day it rained around midday.
"How the FUCK can 1 write when someones' constantly glittering on, in
the other room?" ran the large hand written note, crumpled an the table.
It had been a bitch of a day; heat from the afternoon sun percolated around the shady neighborhood; now and then a lethargic breeze would
whisper,making little impression on the general mugginess of the day "swop you one of my giant bollies for your stoney waller
bartered one scabby kneed brat to another. "Oh yeah,you've got loads,no way!" observed the second, mopping a large punnet-full of-grey-green snot onto his shirt sleeve. "Jimmy, time for tea lovey ... what have you got on your shirt... if they ever invent washing powder to shift that grime, I'll be a happy housewife!" Inside the kitchen pans bubbled and spat venomently. A large fat man limped to the nearby table. "These
new gravy granules are simply wonderful, much better than powdered... continued the woman. "How are you finding beautiful Abertawney
Mr. Greville, enjoying your stay I trust? .... Ooh I remember when 1 was a girl, beaches for miles...." she reminisced.
"Oh it's very suitable, thankyou Mrs. Greville" replied the fat man, now seated and unable to express his limp badly.
For a moment time seemed to stand still.
"Not another repeat!" thought God,whold just tuned in and switched
off. "oh well, back to the book." A large book appeared from no-where the title "LIFE" was clearly visable in large black italics. "What's next... oh yeah, I like this bit." he mused.
"Oh dear Mr. G. you appear to have ketchup oh your collar, 1 wonder how..." trilled Mrs. Greville.
"How or more to the point, who in heaven or hell has done this ... ?" cursed Mr. Greville. But enough of this genial demesticty,back to the good stuff.
Music blarred in the conservatively decorated parlour of 78 Delphine grove; the home of Gladys Banguit,an elderly widow. (is 92 elderly or just ancient?). "It's my new Napalm Death phonograph you know Maudie!" she screamed, "Lovely isn't it?" Her twin sister Maude, five minutes older at birth, said nothing. This was quite a natural event as she had died a week earlier.