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“Morning George!”
Light flooded into the room as Ms. Johnson threw back the thick, velvet drapes, crusading to every nook and cranny, driving out the darkness.
George licked his dry lips, his lungs groaning to force the air to speak.
“Morning Mrs. Johnson” George managed, before stifling a chesty cough that was, he guessed, part and parcel of his twilight years.
“Ms. Johnson I’ll thank you. You’ll not peg me into that cage thank you very much. How’s your chest today? Do you want a cup of tea?”
George simply nodded. He never really understood this woman, who would breeze through his small residential flat every morning bar Sundays and talk at him ten to the dozen. “Breeze?” he thought, “more like a bloody tornado.” A smile creaked its way across his face. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful for the home help. He just sometimes wondered what all the fuss was about.
George looked out of the window. The weather was clement. The man with one of those ridiculous little dogs walked unnaturally slowly past the window, why didn’t he just carry the bloody thing? The man smiled cheerfully and tipped an imaginary hat to George, who all but managed to nod back at him.
“You remember I told you about her fella, don’t you George?”
The tornado had returned. George nodded but recalled no such event. Years of experience had taught him that, more often than not its best just to nod and smile, or maybe just to nod. Ms. Johnson pushed a barely hot mug of tea into his hand.
“There’s your tea love. Well, he told her that he was staying in on Friday, but when she got to The Keys . . .”
The tornado faded back into the kitchen and the chat and odd clatter of Ms. Johnson going about her charitable duties faded into the background. George lifted his tea to his mouth and drank. “She might talk a lot, but she didn’t half make a good cuppa,” George thought.
That was one of the things he missed most about his Elsie. She made the best cups of tea, and her beef hotpot was to die for. None of that shop bought rubbish you get these days. George drank his tea and looked out of the window.
“Right, I’m off then,” the tornado said. George nodded and turned his head to look at her, giving her a little smile that said all the things that he should say, but with one-tenth the effort.
“I might pop back in on my way back from town, ‘bout half four.” The door shut and the latch fell, and George was left in stony silence.
This was George’s favourite part of the day. Sitting in his chair, staring into the space beyond his window. This was when George could revisit any of his 87 years that he cared to remember. George kept photo album in his head, and used it to revisit snapshots of his life. When he first met Elsie, in that dance hall. A broad smile spread across his face that made him look no less than twenty years younger. She was the pick of the bunch, in his mind. Her smile could light up a room. She laughed a lot back then, they both did, before the war.
George did care to remember the years during the war, but possibly his favourite trip down memory lane was coming home, back from the trenches. He remembered feeling sick to the stomach with butterflies, and when he saw Elsie again, waiting there for him with that smile. . .
He shut his eyes and pictured her there.
“Wake up Dad”
George blinked a little and rubbed the sleep from his face, adjusting to the light he picked out a face. Sarah was the picture of her mother.
“Sleeping in your chair again? Won’t do your back any good you know.”
“I always sleep in me chair, s’comfy” George snapped back.
“I dunno, well have you buried in that chair if you’re not careful” Sarah called from the kitchen.
“It’d suit me fine,” George thought, but he ignored her, pretending not to hear.
Sarah pushed a cup of barely hot tea into his hand. They chatted a while, about work, about the grandchildren, about Ms. Johnson, and then she was gone again. George saw a young couple pass by his window. They looked at him with a sympathetic smile. George wondered why. He didn’t see why people should give him sympathy, like he didn’t have a life. George had had his life, and now, in his twilight years, he spent every day reliving them in nostalgia.
Ms. Johnson didn’t come back, and at half past seven in the evening George heaved himself out of his chair, went to the bathroom, then he drew the thick, velvet drapes, sat back in his chair and went to sleep. Before long George began to dream, and a broad smile spread across his face.
The End.
Okay, I couldn't sleep tonight and I haven't done anything like this in probably more than ten years, so please be nice.
Constructive criticism is welcome
Light flooded into the room as Ms. Johnson threw back the thick, velvet drapes, crusading to every nook and cranny, driving out the darkness.
George licked his dry lips, his lungs groaning to force the air to speak.
“Morning Mrs. Johnson” George managed, before stifling a chesty cough that was, he guessed, part and parcel of his twilight years.
“Ms. Johnson I’ll thank you. You’ll not peg me into that cage thank you very much. How’s your chest today? Do you want a cup of tea?”
George simply nodded. He never really understood this woman, who would breeze through his small residential flat every morning bar Sundays and talk at him ten to the dozen. “Breeze?” he thought, “more like a bloody tornado.” A smile creaked its way across his face. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful for the home help. He just sometimes wondered what all the fuss was about.
George looked out of the window. The weather was clement. The man with one of those ridiculous little dogs walked unnaturally slowly past the window, why didn’t he just carry the bloody thing? The man smiled cheerfully and tipped an imaginary hat to George, who all but managed to nod back at him.
“You remember I told you about her fella, don’t you George?”
The tornado had returned. George nodded but recalled no such event. Years of experience had taught him that, more often than not its best just to nod and smile, or maybe just to nod. Ms. Johnson pushed a barely hot mug of tea into his hand.
“There’s your tea love. Well, he told her that he was staying in on Friday, but when she got to The Keys . . .”
The tornado faded back into the kitchen and the chat and odd clatter of Ms. Johnson going about her charitable duties faded into the background. George lifted his tea to his mouth and drank. “She might talk a lot, but she didn’t half make a good cuppa,” George thought.
That was one of the things he missed most about his Elsie. She made the best cups of tea, and her beef hotpot was to die for. None of that shop bought rubbish you get these days. George drank his tea and looked out of the window.
“Right, I’m off then,” the tornado said. George nodded and turned his head to look at her, giving her a little smile that said all the things that he should say, but with one-tenth the effort.
“I might pop back in on my way back from town, ‘bout half four.” The door shut and the latch fell, and George was left in stony silence.
This was George’s favourite part of the day. Sitting in his chair, staring into the space beyond his window. This was when George could revisit any of his 87 years that he cared to remember. George kept photo album in his head, and used it to revisit snapshots of his life. When he first met Elsie, in that dance hall. A broad smile spread across his face that made him look no less than twenty years younger. She was the pick of the bunch, in his mind. Her smile could light up a room. She laughed a lot back then, they both did, before the war.
George did care to remember the years during the war, but possibly his favourite trip down memory lane was coming home, back from the trenches. He remembered feeling sick to the stomach with butterflies, and when he saw Elsie again, waiting there for him with that smile. . .
He shut his eyes and pictured her there.
“Wake up Dad”
George blinked a little and rubbed the sleep from his face, adjusting to the light he picked out a face. Sarah was the picture of her mother.
“Sleeping in your chair again? Won’t do your back any good you know.”
“I always sleep in me chair, s’comfy” George snapped back.
“I dunno, well have you buried in that chair if you’re not careful” Sarah called from the kitchen.
“It’d suit me fine,” George thought, but he ignored her, pretending not to hear.
Sarah pushed a cup of barely hot tea into his hand. They chatted a while, about work, about the grandchildren, about Ms. Johnson, and then she was gone again. George saw a young couple pass by his window. They looked at him with a sympathetic smile. George wondered why. He didn’t see why people should give him sympathy, like he didn’t have a life. George had had his life, and now, in his twilight years, he spent every day reliving them in nostalgia.
Ms. Johnson didn’t come back, and at half past seven in the evening George heaved himself out of his chair, went to the bathroom, then he drew the thick, velvet drapes, sat back in his chair and went to sleep. Before long George began to dream, and a broad smile spread across his face.
The End.
Okay, I couldn't sleep tonight and I haven't done anything like this in probably more than ten years, so please be nice.
Constructive criticism is welcome
“Morning George!”
Light flooded into the room as Ms. Johnson threw back the thick, velvet drapes, crusading to every nook and cranny, driving out the darkness.
George licked his dry lips, his lungs groaning to force the air to speak.
“Morning Mrs. Johnson” George managed, before stifling a chesty cough that was, he guessed, part and parcel of his twilight years.
“Ms. Johnson I’ll thank you. You’ll not peg me into that cage thank you very much. How’s your chest today? Do you want a cup of tea?”
George simply nodded. He never really understood this woman, who would breeze through his small residential flat every morning bar Sundays and talk at him ten to the dozen. “Breeze?” he thought, “more like a bloody tornado.” A smile creaked its way across his face. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful for the home help. He just sometimes wondered what all the fuss was about.
George looked out of the window. The weather was clement. The man with one of those ridiculous little dogs walked unnaturally slowly past the window, why didn’t he just carry the bloody thing? The man smiled cheerfully and tipped an imaginary hat to George, who all but managed to nod back at him.
“You remember I told you about her fella, don’t you George?”
The tornado had returned. George nodded but recalled no such event. Years of experience had taught him that, more often than not its best just to nod and smile, or maybe just to nod. Ms. Johnson pushed a barely hot mug of tea into his hand.
“There’s your tea love. Well, he told her that he was staying in on Friday, but when she got to The Keys . . .”
The tornado faded back into the kitchen and the chat and odd clatter of Ms. Johnson going about her charitable duties faded into the background. George lifted his tea to his mouth and drank. “She might talk a lot, but she didn’t half make a good cuppa,” George thought.
That was one of the things he missed most about his Elsie. She made the best cups of tea, and her beef hotpot was to die for. None of that shop bought rubbish you get these days. George drank his tea and looked out of the window.
“Right, I’m off then,” the tornado said. George nodded and turned his head to look at her, giving her a little smile that said all the things that he should say, but with one-tenth the effort.
“I might pop back in on my way back from town, ‘bout half four.” The door shut and the latch fell, and George was left in stony silence.
This was George’s favourite part of the day. Sitting in his chair, staring into the space beyond his window. This was when George could revisit any of his 87 years that he cared to remember. George kept photo album in his head, and used it to revisit snapshots of his life. When he first met Elsie, in that dance hall. A broad smile spread across his face that made him look no less than twenty years younger. She was the pick of the bunch, in his mind. Her smile could light up a room. She laughed a lot back then, they both did, before the war.
George did care to remember the years during the war, but possibly his favourite trip down memory lane was coming home, back from the trenches. He remembered feeling sick to the stomach with butterflies, and when he saw Elsie again, waiting there for him with that smile. . .
He shut his eyes and pictured her there.
“Wake up Dad”
George blinked a little and rubbed the sleep from his face, adjusting to the light he picked out a face. Sarah was the picture of her mother.
“Sleeping in your chair again? Won’t do your back any good you know.”
“I always sleep in me chair, s’comfy” George snapped back.
“I dunno, well have you buried in that chair if you’re not careful” Sarah called from the kitchen.
“It’d suit me fine,” George thought, but he ignored her, pretending not to hear.
Sarah pushed a cup of barely hot tea into his hand. They chatted a while, about work, about the grandchildren, about Ms. Johnson, and then she was gone again. George saw a young couple pass by his window. They looked at him with a sympathetic smile. George wondered why. He didn’t see why people should give him sympathy, like he didn’t have a life. George had had his life, and now, in his twilight years, he spent every day reliving them in nostalgia.
Ms. Johnson didn’t come back, and at half past seven in the evening George heaved himself out of his chair, went to the bathroom, then he drew the thick, velvet drapes, sat back in his chair and went to sleep. Before long George began to dream, and a broad smile spread across his face.
The End.
Okay, I couldn't sleep tonight and I haven't done anything like this in probably more than ten years, so please be nice.
Constructive criticism is welcome
Light flooded into the room as Ms. Johnson threw back the thick, velvet drapes, crusading to every nook and cranny, driving out the darkness.
George licked his dry lips, his lungs groaning to force the air to speak.
“Morning Mrs. Johnson” George managed, before stifling a chesty cough that was, he guessed, part and parcel of his twilight years.
“Ms. Johnson I’ll thank you. You’ll not peg me into that cage thank you very much. How’s your chest today? Do you want a cup of tea?”
George simply nodded. He never really understood this woman, who would breeze through his small residential flat every morning bar Sundays and talk at him ten to the dozen. “Breeze?” he thought, “more like a bloody tornado.” A smile creaked its way across his face. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful for the home help. He just sometimes wondered what all the fuss was about.
George looked out of the window. The weather was clement. The man with one of those ridiculous little dogs walked unnaturally slowly past the window, why didn’t he just carry the bloody thing? The man smiled cheerfully and tipped an imaginary hat to George, who all but managed to nod back at him.
“You remember I told you about her fella, don’t you George?”
The tornado had returned. George nodded but recalled no such event. Years of experience had taught him that, more often than not its best just to nod and smile, or maybe just to nod. Ms. Johnson pushed a barely hot mug of tea into his hand.
“There’s your tea love. Well, he told her that he was staying in on Friday, but when she got to The Keys . . .”
The tornado faded back into the kitchen and the chat and odd clatter of Ms. Johnson going about her charitable duties faded into the background. George lifted his tea to his mouth and drank. “She might talk a lot, but she didn’t half make a good cuppa,” George thought.
That was one of the things he missed most about his Elsie. She made the best cups of tea, and her beef hotpot was to die for. None of that shop bought rubbish you get these days. George drank his tea and looked out of the window.
“Right, I’m off then,” the tornado said. George nodded and turned his head to look at her, giving her a little smile that said all the things that he should say, but with one-tenth the effort.
“I might pop back in on my way back from town, ‘bout half four.” The door shut and the latch fell, and George was left in stony silence.
This was George’s favourite part of the day. Sitting in his chair, staring into the space beyond his window. This was when George could revisit any of his 87 years that he cared to remember. George kept photo album in his head, and used it to revisit snapshots of his life. When he first met Elsie, in that dance hall. A broad smile spread across his face that made him look no less than twenty years younger. She was the pick of the bunch, in his mind. Her smile could light up a room. She laughed a lot back then, they both did, before the war.
George did care to remember the years during the war, but possibly his favourite trip down memory lane was coming home, back from the trenches. He remembered feeling sick to the stomach with butterflies, and when he saw Elsie again, waiting there for him with that smile. . .
He shut his eyes and pictured her there.
“Wake up Dad”
George blinked a little and rubbed the sleep from his face, adjusting to the light he picked out a face. Sarah was the picture of her mother.
“Sleeping in your chair again? Won’t do your back any good you know.”
“I always sleep in me chair, s’comfy” George snapped back.
“I dunno, well have you buried in that chair if you’re not careful” Sarah called from the kitchen.
“It’d suit me fine,” George thought, but he ignored her, pretending not to hear.
Sarah pushed a cup of barely hot tea into his hand. They chatted a while, about work, about the grandchildren, about Ms. Johnson, and then she was gone again. George saw a young couple pass by his window. They looked at him with a sympathetic smile. George wondered why. He didn’t see why people should give him sympathy, like he didn’t have a life. George had had his life, and now, in his twilight years, he spent every day reliving them in nostalgia.
Ms. Johnson didn’t come back, and at half past seven in the evening George heaved himself out of his chair, went to the bathroom, then he drew the thick, velvet drapes, sat back in his chair and went to sleep. Before long George began to dream, and a broad smile spread across his face.
The End.
Okay, I couldn't sleep tonight and I haven't done anything like this in probably more than ten years, so please be nice.
Constructive criticism is welcome
Nice
Thanx, Dr Duck :)