There’s nothing like telling people not to look at something to make them look at it. But it really does have strong language. That’s not my fault. I sometimes can’t control my own characters.

This comes from a series of little pieces concocted during a 3 day writing workshop. Each was done with a 30 minute time limit so …. a bit scratchy.

That’s my excuse.

***

Stumbling out the door. Ducking beneath the drooping branches of a decaying garden and into the sunlight. Tripping on a loose paving stone.

“Fuck.”

A bespectacled man in a suit, prematurely balding, with gleaming black shoes and leather briefcase, closing in from the right.

Turn left. Walk away.

“Sir! Sir!”

Walk on. Walk on. Just keep going.

“Sir! Sir! Hold up a bit! Sir!”

Answer back. Good strong voice of authority. “And who’d be asking me to hold up and what right would he have to interrupt my morning walk?”

“I am James Smythe-Jones, Dr Freedman, of Jones, Jones, Smythe-Jones and Jones, and I ……”

“Never fucking heard of you.” Attempting to increase speed, but the little prick is still making up ground. Before long  the stench of his breath will be smearing itself across the back of my neck.

Shouting now. An attempt to incite fear. “And I don’t care what brand of Jones you are. There’s one of you on every street corner nowadays. I have no time for you. So fuck right off back to where you came from before I turn around and knock your lights out.”

“The matter concerns your uncle, Sir”

“My uncle is a cunt.”

Can’t keep this up for long. Struggling for breath. Old legs failing me in a crisis.

“I regret to inform you, Sir, that ….”

“He’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so, Sir.”

“But still obnoxiously wealthy?”

“Extraordinarily so, Sir”

Stopping mid stride. Stepping off the footpath and taking aim for a park bench. “Then let us both rest our weary legs a while, Mr Smythe-Jones. We may, indeed, have business to discuss.”

***