Jerrybaldy
11-03-2012, 08:37 PM
Evening; sitting at home with a cold sausage roll, pea soup outside the windowpane. The 8.43 to Glasgow rattling the tea cups on hooks above the blue washed dresser. Bone china waiting for the talkative lips of visitors uninvited.
‘Who’s a pretty boy?’ asks Chalky from his cage. I am not in a conversational mood. Chalky understands. He returns to preening in front of his pink plastic mirror. Rings the bell with his beak.
A church bell tolls in the distance. I move from the sofa. A wayward spring announces my departure. I walk to the bedroom.
She is lying on her side of the bed. Foetal position. I kiss her forehead and go the kitchen. I turn on the gas and then hunt for the matchbox. A blue explosion burns the hair from my fingers when I finally strike. The familiar smell of gas and burning finger hair.
The kettle whistles as the 9.02 to Manchester clatters over its rails. I peer from the window to see the illuminated carriages streak by. Men in suits fail to glance from their newspapers to notice how I watch them pass through the fog of the night.
I carry her cup of tea. Not the bone china. A Japanese print plain old china. A wedding present from Uncle Reg. Milky tea leaf steam mists my glasses.
Whistling ‘Polly put the kettle on’ I enter the bedroom. This is an age old tradition that used to make us smile. I place the cup beside the three others.
I undress, whilst changing my tune to ‘Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye’. I slide into the bed. She feels colder still tonight.
‘Goodnight dear’.
Only the 9.15 to Derby breaks the silence.
‘Who’s a pretty boy?’ asks Chalky from his cage. I am not in a conversational mood. Chalky understands. He returns to preening in front of his pink plastic mirror. Rings the bell with his beak.
A church bell tolls in the distance. I move from the sofa. A wayward spring announces my departure. I walk to the bedroom.
She is lying on her side of the bed. Foetal position. I kiss her forehead and go the kitchen. I turn on the gas and then hunt for the matchbox. A blue explosion burns the hair from my fingers when I finally strike. The familiar smell of gas and burning finger hair.
The kettle whistles as the 9.02 to Manchester clatters over its rails. I peer from the window to see the illuminated carriages streak by. Men in suits fail to glance from their newspapers to notice how I watch them pass through the fog of the night.
I carry her cup of tea. Not the bone china. A Japanese print plain old china. A wedding present from Uncle Reg. Milky tea leaf steam mists my glasses.
Whistling ‘Polly put the kettle on’ I enter the bedroom. This is an age old tradition that used to make us smile. I place the cup beside the three others.
I undress, whilst changing my tune to ‘Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye’. I slide into the bed. She feels colder still tonight.
‘Goodnight dear’.
Only the 9.15 to Derby breaks the silence.