You’d think that a simple thing like dropping your child off at a day care centre would be a simple thing. Well, it used to be. That was until I started talking to another parent each day. Natalie was her name. She was a solo mother with a daughter the same age as my son. I was a widower. My wife had died not long after Rory was born.
I found myself dropping off Rory each day at the exact time I knew that Natalie was dropping off her child. She worked for the City Council; some sort of secretarial job. I was self-employed. I researched genealogical documents for people who wanted to know their family tree but didn’t have the knowhow to do it themselves. They paid well too!
Natalie’s hours were flexible, as were mine. It didn’t matter if we dawdled a little when we dropped off our children. Eventually I asked her if she would like to go to lunch and she said “Yes”.
It was the start of something. That was sixteen years ago. My goodness me! What a two-timing double-crossing, selfish, catty, mean, sour hussy her daughter has turned out to be. I can’t wait for her to pack up and leave home. Of course I would never tell Natalie that. She’d go into revenge mode and I couldn’t guarantee my future would be safe. I mean, I’ve always suspected that a couple of years ago she was the one who poisoned Rory.
What a relief! After forty-seven years of marriage Barry could at last leave the butter out of the fridge. The fridge had no butter conditioner and for all those years of married life his wife had insisted that the block of butter be kept in the refrigerator.
Just to butter a piece of toast Barry would scrap and chop and hack away. It was inevitably the cause of why he always ended up with far too much butter on his toast or on a sandwich.
After forty-seven years Thelma his wife had been buttering a slice of toast when the knife slipped and she cut her hand. Her hand became infected. Still, she would not admit to Barry that the butter should be in the cupboard and not the fridge.
Not being able to cope with a solid block of butter would be succumbing to old age, according to Thelma. But then oh victory! Oh joy! Oh rapture! Oh butter! The butter was emancipated!
It was just a shame that his wife died from the hand infection.
(Note: Today – in real life – the power company is mysteriously fiddling with the electric wiring in the area so the electricity will be off here all day. Also no mobile phone coverage where I live. So I probably won’t be responding to comments).
When he died Franz was pretty much blown away. He discovered he wasn’t one soul at all, but two. It was like twins but they shared the same body. It explained many things. For example, sometimes he could be patient and loving towards his wife, and sometimes he could be impatient and heartless.
Which one is me? was the first question he asked upon learning of this strange thing. The answer was, you are both. Apparently it is not an uncommon phenomenon.
Of course both had been married to Miranda during life on earth. He wondered when she would die so that they could be together again. He didn’t have to wait long; just a couple of years.
When Miranda passed away it was discovered that there was not just one of her. Not two of her either. There was eighteen of her.
Errol explained to the policeman that the shooting of his wife had been an accident. He had simply taken his handgun to clean, and before he could even check to ensure it was bullet-less he accidentally pulled the trigger. The bullet hit his wife who slumped dead over the dining table. She had been placing a freshly washed table cloth.
The body was still slumped there in a pool of blood. Errol had immediately phoned for the police.
The local policeman arrived. Errol was still holding the handgun, he was so shocked. Even though he knew that Errol wasn’t dangerous, the policeman called for backup. That was when Errol accidentally shot the policeman. He slumped over Errol’s wife’s corpse.
It wasn’t a good time for Beatrice. She found herself dreaming of what she would do if her husband of eleven years would pass away. They had plenty of money. They had drifted apart. She would perhaps go on a world trip. She would buy a new wardrobe just for herself. She would sell the house and buy a property with a little lake. There was so much to dream about.
Of course she knew she shouldn’t indulge in such fantasies. Her husband’s death would be a sad time; a very, very sad time. But wouldn’t it be wonderful to be independent again and do whatever she liked when and where?
It was a Thursday and husband Vaughan was driving home. He had just been to the doctor. “I’m sorry,” said the doctor, “but it’s terminal. I would give you a month at the most.”
Vaughan arrived home. He told Beatrice. Beatrice’s heart missed a beat. “Oh that’s terrible,” she said.
Alice wasn’t a farm girl. She was city raised, but she had fallen in love and married George and he was a sheep farmer. They had been engaged before the outbreak of the First World War, and George had returned home with an injured knee. It wasn’t particularly debilitating, but at times things flared up and he had to see a doctor.
The sheep farm had a cow to provide milk for the household, and of course it had to be milked every day. By now they had a daughter, Margaret. And then… George’s knee flared up and he had to go to hospital.
Alice had never milked a cow in her life but it was a task that had to be done. She took three hours on the first attempt. Eventually she walked over to the neighbouring farm and asked, “Can you come over and show me how to milk the darn cow?” Alice quickly became adept.
After a few months George’s knee hadn’t healed and the farm was too much of a burden. They sold the farm and went to live in the town.
Daughter Margaret wasn’t really a farm girl. She was city raised, but she had fallen in love with Bert and he was a farmer. One day Bert went down on one knee and said to Margaret, “Will you marry me?”
“Only if you first teach me how to milk a cow,” said Margaret.
A very pretty wedding was celebrated at the Presbyterian Church on Wednesday when William Harold, third son of Mr. and Mrs. G.V. Gilbert was married to Olive Maud, the youngest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Tommy Stevenson.
The bride, who entered the church attended by her father, was daintily attired in a frock of ivory georgette with pearl trimmings over shell pink crepe de chine with a beautiful lace veil forming a train.
Following the ceremony, the reception was held at the Carlton dining rooms, where the bride’s mother, Mrs. Stevenson, was stunningly gowned in navy blue georgette over sateen and carried a bouquet to tone. In comparison, the groom’s mother, Mrs. Gilbert, looked quite dumpy in her ruby coloured crepe de chine with bronze trimmings, and hat and shoes that didn’t really match. You’d think she had just come in from weeding the garden. Why people without taste don’t get proper advice in style is beyond me. Honestly, it doesn’t auger well for the bride and groom when their respective mothers’ sense of fashion is so widely incongruent.
The newlyweds left by train for the south where the honeymoon will be spent. But honest to goodness, given the fashion disparity, I can’t see the marriage lasting longer than four months.
When Ryan left for war Anna, his fiancée, was devastated. Every day she would wait for a tragic phone call or a knock on the door. He was a pilot on an aircraft carrier. Although he had not told her much of where he was or what he was doing, the letters were always warm and good humoured. He was, she guessed, based somewhere off the coast of Scotland.
They had talked of marriage before he left. They would be wed when he got back from the war. It wouldn’t be a big wedding; just family and a few friends. Anna planned it in detail. It took her mind off worry. She had told him in her last letter, perhaps they could get married in a garden. His sister could sing “Ave Maria”. The wedding feast, given the rationing during the war, would be lovely yet simple.
The war seemed to go on interminably. Then the fateful day came. There was a knock on the door. Ryan’s plane had been shot down. He was buried in Belgium. Anna was beyond grief. She vowed to be faithful to him all her life. He would be the only one. She was almost tempted to change her surname to his.
Two weeks later the Dear John letter written by Ryan before his death arrived in the mail.
Lucas certainly wanted his marriage proposal to Elizabeth to be special. He wanted it to be a surprise. He wanted it to be romantic. He wanted it to be everything that Elizabeth had ever dreamed of.
This proposal had taken weeks, nay months, of thought and planning, but at last he had decided. He would wait until the wisteria was fully in flower (Elizabeth loved wisteria), set up a romantic table for two on the patio (Elizabeth loved outside dining), have Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos playing quietly in the background (Elizabeth loved Bach), and then he would go down on one knee with the engagement ring and pop the question. She was coming for dinner this very evening.
There was a knock on the door. It was Elizabeth.
“You’re early!” said Lucas. “Come through! Come through! We’re having dinner on the patio at the back of the house. You look as beautiful as ever!”
“Look,” said Elizabeth, “I’ve come early to say our relationship is over. I’m calling it off.”