STONE THE CROWS

‘Stone the crows,’ I said quietly to myself as I stepped out from her maisonette into the cold along the walkway led back to my place.
‘Stone the crows,’ wondering if anyone other than me said that anymore, and wishing my Dad had been a different kind of man might have been more use to me both then and now.
She’d texted earlier: Hi it’s me. Do you have any paracetamol (or solpadol, cocodamol, codrydamol or similar) please? I am stuck in bed with arthritis :(
I texted: Yes, I do, I’ll bring some round. Still have key shall I let myself in?
She texted: Yes please!:-)
When I let myself in and said, ‘Hello, it’s me,’ she said, ‘Woof, woof.’
‘Where is he?’ I said.
‘With Kay,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t get out much with me like this.’
‘They alright?’ I said when I gave her the meds.
She read the box. She said, ‘You want some of these?’
I took the proffered box: Tramadol. Took a strip out, ten tabs. Re-proffered the box.


EXPOSED

If only the ground would open up and swallow me whole.
‘Is anyone sitting there?’ she said pointing at the seat opposite where I sat in the Arts House.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I’m leaving so you can sit here.’
I stood up. I closed my book.
‘I’ll sit there then,’ she said. ‘In the reading corner.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘before anyone else does.’
I hated myself..
‘Hmm,’ she said weakly, my fate sealed.
I put my book in my bag.
She put a dog-eared copy of “Catch-22” on the table.
I put my coat on.
Embarrassed, my head down, I left the café, crossed the road, up Ninetree, then left along Dove Street where I felt more than usually exposed.