Mary stepped out of her bungalow briskly, wrapped up warmly against the biting November cold. She tottered down her neat garden path and through the squeaky iron gate, painted white although flaking. Behind her all the while she towed her little tartan cart, the upright rectangular shopping trolley that she took everywhere, small plastic wheels […]
He struggled to get to get the words right. No. He always had the words right, he just struggled to get them out. They were all there, all those beautiful, perfect words just swimming around in the soup of his consciousness, caged inside his skull, an unjust prison. It was no good, struggling, he accepted. […]
It was a Sunday, and boy was it a Sunday! Although it was certainly no massive surprise for a day so late into July as the day was. The reports of the spell of dry and warm weather could hardly have been missed, the weather, while not being exceptional given the state of previous summers, had been mentioned at nearly every opportunity by the seemingly fervent voices on the radio, almost as if they were trying to urge their listeners away from their Hi-Fis and car stereos and into the parks, into the public swimming pools and air conditioned shopping centres, all of which would be packed to the point where it would be difficult to draw a breath without sucking in someone else’s sweat.
Of course, that was part of the joy to be had, today was a Sunday, and a wonderful Sunday at that. No one would be working on a Sunday. Bobby spared a thought for all the poor suckers, the store assistants, the waiters, the park wardens that were all trapped in the vice of employment, all silently begging for freedom, all with their lips pursed to the cracks, exerting their best to gulp what air they could, wishing to throw off their sweaty work clothes and join the massed throng of people enjoying their time, to be part of the laughing, smiling crowds, to take in what was good about the day.
“Nope, No one would be working today” was the thought that played over gleefully in Bobby’s mind as he rolled his flatbed truck into the lot; blaring The Absolute Greatest Rock Hits of the 20th Century as the cover of the CD his wife bought him for his last years birthday assured him, of course, what the CD cover had really meant, he had supposed a few times, was; The-Absolute-Most-Memorable-and-Commercially-Available-Rock-Hits-of-The-20th-Century but all machinations of the music business aside, it sure as hell was great driving music, especially for warm and sunny Sundays and empty back roads “Not a body”