Tag Archives: divorce

2095. Who was out to murder?

Urs was a tyrannical husband. Alice had long felt trapped in the relationship. She knew she should untangle herself from such a situation but really she didn’t know how. Her only time of peace was after the evening meal when she would take her coffee (Urs was watching the evening news) and wander down to the back of the garden where Urs kept his racing pigeons.

Urs was besotted with his pigeons. Alice found their gentle cooing both soothing and consoling.

The racing pigeons were worth a pretty packet. He would enter racing competitions with them regularly. He cared for them more than he cared for his wife.

One of his more tyrannical aspects was that Alice should prepare only healthy food. He regarded vegetable greens as a must to every meal, especially peas. “Peas are riddled with nutrients,” he would say. “That’s why they are so green.”

Alice hated peas. Part of her post-dinner evening walk was to take the peas she had hidden in her napkin and give them to the pigeons.

One early morning, Urs went down to see his pigeons and they were all dead. A veterinarian post-mortem showed that they had eaten poisoned peas.

2093. Oh what a tragedy!

Have you any idea how expensive it is to get a divorce? Raymond wanted to get rid of his wife but he wasn’t keen to lose almost half of what he’d worked for throughout his life. It was cheaper (and quicker) simply to get rid of her in a cunning and imperceptible way.

He devised a fabulous plan. As far as he could work out, it hadn’t been done before – at least he’d never heard of it. He had one of those cars whereby the driver had controls to lock the car doors. It was a child protection device. If the children in the back and passenger seats were messing around they couldn’t accidently open the door and fall out.

What Raymond would do was to stall the car on a rail crossing just as a train was hurtling towards them. Then he’d quickly press the button to lock his wife’s door, leap out his own door, and… Oh what a tragedy! Oh what a sadness! Why did it happen to me?

It wasn’t exactly something he could practise. After all, how many cars can one afford? But he drove the route several times and knew well the times the trains passed.

The day arrived. They were to visit great aunt Maude and bring her the usual weekly supply of chocolate and cat food. They were just about to leave (Raymond was actually wearing his running shoes!) when a message came that great Aunt Maud’s sister also wanted to visit Maude, and could they pick her up on the way? That ruined things. The request meant they would have to take another route. Murder would have to wait another day.

The following week off they went on their habitual visit. Raymond’s wife (goodness, as yet she is not introduced – her name was Fiona) had trouble dragging Raymond’s drugged body to the garage and into the car. Once done she drove to the rail crossing and stopped. She got out to watch.

Oh what a tragedy! Oh what a sadness! Why did it happen to me?

(P.S. A Happy Easter to all who wish to be wished such! I shall be hopefully back with a murder on the 5th, Easter Monday!)

2060. Them’s the breaks

Ivan was a weedy little man and Sheila was buxom. After seventeen years marriage Sheila decided that enough was enough and wanted a divorce.

“Enough is enough,” she said.

“Enough of what?” asked Ivan.

“Enough,” said Sheila.

There was no reason for a divorce except Sheila wanted change. After seventeen years the humdrum-ity of life was calling for a change in direction. Ivan was at first mystified and then angry. All papers and things were filed. The divorce came through. Sheila moved down the street in search of the great tomorrow.

The next day Ivan won a hundred and twenty-four million in the lottery.

1888. I can’t think of everything at once

“I can’t think of everything at once” was Bella’s way of not only trying to find a reason for what happened, but her way of coping with the situation.

Dale had left Bella quite unexpectedly. One minute they were happily married, or so Bella thought, and the next minute he’d upped and left and was cohabitating with that floosy from the confectionary shop down on the corner of Shelley Street. Bella had no idea what he saw in her. And now Bella was on her own. The dividing of the matrimonial goods hadn’t as yet happened, but Bella was ensconced in the joint house and she wasn’t budging for the time being. Besides, it was winter and the house had a log fire and lots of firewood stack in the shed. She would cope.

On a rather chilly winter’s evening Bella discovered she had let the log fire go out. Dale had always set and lit the fire but she wasn’t entirely impractical. She screwed up some pages of newspaper and wigwammed some kindling over the top of it. That was when she discovered that she couldn’t think of everything at once. Dale had always lit the fire with his cigarette lighter. There were no matches in the house. Matches had not been on her grocery list.

Of course it was a silly idea, but Bella had heard since early childhood that primitive humans started a fire by rubbing two sticks together. She didn’t have a clue how to do it, and suspected very much that it wouldn’t work anyway. For a time she thought she would stay warm by wrapping herself up in blankets. She would buy some matches tomorrow. But then Bella thought of a solution.

She rolled up a sheet of newspaper tightly. She went to the kitchen, turned on the toaster, and from the element of the toaster she lit the rolled up newspaper. On the way to the wood burner with her burning torch she brushed past the lacy curtains in the dining room.

It’s always a shame when nothing is insured.

(Note: Today’s story number of 1888 is out of sync. That’s because a month or so back Story 1888 was missed – so this is a catch-up!)

1817. A close shave

It was a total give-away when Garth, while setting the table for dinner, nonchalantly said, “It depends on the brand, Ida.”

Garth’s statement was in response to his wife’s question of “Do you want some tomato sauce with dinner?” The problem was, Garth’s wife’s name was Sylvia, not Ida. Sylvia, who was suspicious at the best of times, cottoned on to it immediately. The Ida referred to would inevitably be Ida Brocklehurst who was a teacher’s assistant at the school where Garth taught Biology. Clearly they were having an affair. Why else would he so matter-a-factly trot out the name of Ida if they weren’t carrying on a rampant and sweaty undercover plot of fornication?

“Why did you call me Ida?” asked Sylvia in a voice that both quaked with fear and yet had all the vehemence of someone who already intended to sue for divorce.

“I have no idea,” said Garth. “It just came out.”

Garth came up with an immediate plan. “I think we should both have our ears tested,” he said. “They provide a free hearing test at the pharmacy.”

“Why do we need a hearing test?” demanded Sylvia.

“Because I didn’t call you Ida. I said It depends on the brand, my dear. ”

“Oh, how silly of me,” said Sylvia now slightly embarrassed and in recovery mode.

Garth was relieved. He couldn’t wait to tell Ida in the morning. And somehow he had to stop Sylvia from getting her hearing tested.

1803. Box in the attic

There’s a box I keep in the attic. I don’t know why I keep it. It’s got a few papers in it. I know exactly what they are.

They’re my divorce papers. From Marcia. They’ve been stored in the attic for almost five years. The whole thing came to me as a brutal shock. It was the last thing I was expecting. And then suddenly, one dinner time, Marcia announced the divorce.

I suppose I kept the papers so I’d know what to do next time. If it ever happened again. Like it would. I haven’t dated anyone since the divorce. These things knock the living daylights out of you. Nothing could replace Marcia. I live off the memory. I feed off the memory of those happy days. She’s since remarried. I suspect she met Herbert a good while prior to the divorce announcement.

My sister says I should move on, so this afternoon, when the truck came around collecting the trash I went up to the attic. I grabbed the box with the divorce papers, took it outside and chucked it (with a certain delightful vehemence I might add) onto the truck. It’s gone now. All gone. It was liberating. I felt as if I had let go.

Besides, yesterday I met Melanie.

1724. Fate steps in

My name is Ruth, although everyone calls me Roly-Poly because I’m as wide as I am high. I’ve always been called that. I take it as a term of endearment; an affectional nomenclature. Even some of my teachers at school, years ago, called me Roly-Poly. I have a cheerful disposition, although I’m a little nervous about what I am going to tell you now. I tell you in the greatest confidence.

Yesterday my husband died. It was very sudden. One minute he was standing in front of the pop-up toaster at breakfast and the next minute he was as dead as a dodo. My first reaction was to break into laughter. I couldn’t believe it. I was shocked and I laughed hysterically. All the neighbours would have heard. If they were furtively watching the Who-ever-it-was take my husband’s corpse away they would have heard me shrieking with laughter.

I’ve been laughing all day. I can’t seem to stop, and I have to pretend it’s a nervous reaction brought about by grief or whatever. But that is not the case.

Only the day before he dropped dead he announced that he wanted a divorce. He was leaving me, and taking half of the stuff. The thing he wanted the most was the grandfather clock. That clock was my grandmother’s. It was really mine, not his. It is truly a magnificent and priceless heirloom. Only a week ago, when I came home from work, this stylish saleswoman was in the front room trying to sell my husband furniture polish. She thought the grandfather clock was an irreplaceable antique.

All in all, my husband’s demands were quite clueless; he wanted half the pots and pans, half the furniture, half of this and half of that. Why would he want half of my jewellery? He had it all worked out in his head.

And now he’s dead and it’s all mine! That’s why I’m laughing. I can’t help it. It is Fate; Fate with a little help from a loose wire in the pop-up toaster.

1704. Snip! Snip!

Cornelius was in a good mind to ask for a divorce. He was an avid gardener and had told Constantia again and again, DO NOT CUT THE FLOWERS.

“What’s the point,” Constantia would say, “of growing flowers if they’re not for cutting and putting in a vase to brighten the day?”

“It might brighten the inside of the house,” said Cornelius, “but what about the outside?”

Cornelius did all the gardening. Constantia could have helped, but she didn’t. All she did was gather the secateurs, or sometimes the kitchen scissors, and go snip, snip, as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

Cornelius talked to his plants. They were his friends. He was convinced that talking to his plants increased their vigour, their beauty, their desire to please. Besides, they were much better company than Constantia. All she did was go out and kill the blooms.

Cornelius conceived a plan. It wasn’t one that Constantia was expecting. It came out of the blue; like a blue hydrangea or a blue larkspur. He filed for divorce.

It came as a massive shock to Constantia.

“That’ll teach you,” said Cornelius. “At least Suzie-Lou appreciates everything I do and won’t annihilate my flora.”

1685. A wonderful Christmas gift

You’ve no idea the trouble Ivy went to, to get twelve lovely photographs of the wonderful family who lived next door. There were five in the Winchcombe Family: Mum, Dad, and their three beautiful daughters. The Winchcombes were about as ideal next door neighbours as one could hope for. And every Christmas they would bring Ivy a basket of the tastiest homemade shortbread possible. Glorious!

The trouble was that Ivy always had trouble knowing what best to give them in return. She’d done chocolates at least five times. And then she got this idea. Wonderful!

She would get a calendar printed with a different family photograph each month of the year. Ivy started early gathering the photographs together. It was a difficult task because she didn’t want to let her secret out. The photos were perfect. There was a beautiful one of the family gathering mushrooms in a green field. Another shot was of the family at a fair ground. The loveliest photograph of all was an official portrait taken of the family sitting on a rug in front of a lake. With swans. And trees. And flowers. And… oh lovely! Just lovely!

Ivy was so pleased with the calendar when it was finished that she couldn’t wait to give it to the family. But she must be patient. She mustn’t jump the gun. Only a week to go!

And then the three girls called in with a basket of Christmas shortbread and said that their parents were getting a divorce.

1635. A terrible fire

What a mess! Thank goodness for insurance. The whole house burned to the ground. All the contents have gone up in smoke. At least that saves trying to resurrect smoke-damaged furniture and the like. I’m going to get a hefty sum; and I mean hefty. It pays to insure everything carefully and right. It’s all in the planning.

It happened just over three weeks ago. Thank goodness no one was hurt. My wife had gone for the weekend to visit her mother. The three kids were staying with my parents. And I’d put the dog in the kennels for the weekend (goodness are those kennels expensive!) because I intended going on a weekend hike with other members of the Mountain and Stream Club that I belong to. When I came home the fire-fighters were still quenching the occasional ember that flared up. I’m pretty sure I went into shock.

Of course, the three kids continue to stay with my parents, and the wife with her mother. I’ve been booked into a motel with Mary-Sue. We hope to spend part of the insurance money getting married and building a new place and starting a new life. It was such a relief when the past was destroyed by fire. No more harrowing memories. And the soon-to-be-ex-wife should hopefully be locked up for quite some time for arson. She denies it of course.