In Need Of A Holiday *edit There was a metallic clink as the letterbox snapped shut. The dog had failed to hear it this time, testament either to the mastiff's progressing deafness, or the postman's tentative stealth. Either way, there was now one notably unmauled letter lying alone on the doormat. Like a pebble on the beach it would sit there unnoticed and nondescript until The Husband finally came home, puffing and panting and brooding over another day at the office. No doubt Charles, The Chief, had been working the troops in his typically totalitarian fashion, wearing them down to the bone with an extra client-form here and a feedback review there, or simply the infuriating whine of his voice. Maybe it was nature for a man promoted to Charles' position to adopt such a scintillatingly obnoxious stance, perhaps it was a sought after quality in the finance business, or maybe it was a characteristic only accumulated over several years of hard graft and ruthless haggling over ten pence here and and unpaid pound there. Whatever the reasoning, he was now irreversibly the sort of person to usurp a frail old man from his seat on a train, simply because he'd 'rather face forward, if you please!' Jack Loathed him. This wasn't because he was himself getting on a bit, and neither did he have a generally negative impression of people. But if someone had asked him, at any stage of his #life, to list the characteristics of a man or woman who he would least mind to never meet, his godforsaken boss would fit the bill perfectly. If he was told that this person was then to be his next door neighbour, he probably would have cried. On the 16th of June, nothing drastic enough had happened to change this view. Indeed, as was customary for the Summer season in Britain, it had been raining nigh-on continuously since, well, since as far back as Jack's memory would go. The unrelenting drizzle only threatened his spirits further as he stepped off the bus across the street from Witicam Lane, realm to his small semi-detached abode, like a strap rubbing on a hiker's back.. ~~~ The wind gushed in as he opened the front door, briefly exposing the cosy warmth of the red-carpeted hallway to the elements outside. Growing up in England and subsequently being groomed into the steadfast ways of an English Chap, Jack had obtained certain qualities only ever found among his fellow countrymen. Included with these were an inherent love for all things cricket, an insatiable appetite for strong black tea and, perhaps most importantly, a hardy resilience to poor weather. Be it gales, snow or tumultuous flooding, the same default remarks of ‘a tad blustery out here!’ or ‘needed a dash of rain to water the petunias anyway!’ would be wielded to greet it. And naturally in hand with the verbal shrug-off would of course be the rigorous material preparation of an umbrella or thick woolly. Today was no different. Upon crossing the threshold and entering the calm of his castle, Jack hung up his saturated coat, doffed his cap, and made his way towards the kitchen from where the divine whiff of frying sausage was wafting, all the while muttering something about rain cleansing the skin. Inside he found todays paper on the table and his wife, Mary-Jane, gracefully prodding a frying pan. ‘Good evening love’ he said, bee-lining towards the paper’s sports section. Mary-Jane had too grown up in a typically English town. It's no surprise then that she was fully attune with the thoughts and reactions, not to mention priorities, concerning tea or cricket that any keen lad could have. This insight into the Englishman’s mind, specifically that of her husband, was what made her such a good wife. And with the benefit of 6 years of marriage, she’d managed to infuse this knowledge with Jack’s daily routines such that when he came home at 7:46 he could find, like a Nomad seeking water in a well, a finely brewed pot of tea waiting hot on the table. ‘Smells scrumptious M-J! How about sparing one for a poor starving chap?’ ‘Good day at work, Pickle?’ she replied, coming over and pecking him affectionately on the cheek. She stood behind him, hands resting on his shoulders as he poured the tea. ‘Hmph, Pickle. The wrinkles that bad!?’ he said with mock indignation in his voice. ‘Nothing a little ironing couldn’t fix.’ ‘I’ll tell you what I need.’ ‘A warm bubble-bath?’ ‘No.’ ‘A cup of hot cocoa and a couple of toasted pikelets?’ ‘What’s a ‘pikelet’? And no.’ Like in all marriages, even Jack and M-J had their differences. But a tactile M-J continued lovingly. ‘Well spit it out then for heaven’s sake, what is it?’ ‘A holiday.’ ‘Ahhh’. They both turned their heads and gazed dreamily out of the window towards the small tuft of green yard outside. The rain had paused. ‘Just a week or two by the sea, with fresh air, the sound of seagulls and the smell of seafood.’ ‘Ahhh’ The clouds had parted slightly and a pair of bees arrived and began dancing a merry duet around the tulips. ‘A stiff breeze and a spot of sun. Oooh, some lovely, warm sun!’ The bees had stopped buzzing and were now lazing on the leaves, wings spread wide and tanning gently. M-J, sensing Jack was losing his integral patriotic spirit, and fearing that he would never be the same man again if left wallowing, saw it as time to splash metaphorical icy-cold water on his face. ‘Charles is coming over.’ she said as if announcing the kettle had boiled. ‘What!?’ He nearly fell off his chair. ‘And his wife Gwendylene’ His heart stopped. If it were not for the medicinal properties of Eau de Sausage, it might have stayed that way. Even the bees had retreated in disgust. There were few people who Jack disliked more than Charles, but looking like a shrivelled potato sprouting four limbs, and with a personality to match, Gwendyline was one of them. 'You can't be serious? Wha.. Why!? It won't be for long. Only a few days.' 'WHA..!' jack's face turned beetroot. Then, slowly, a sparkle of clarity began to creep into his mind. His wife no longer loved him. He'd done something wrong and now she was extracting revenge. No doubt she'd planned this for months, a scheme to test their marriage beyond all hope of repair, and shrewdly chosen the one tool that could most certainly do the job. But ever the aspiring Sherlock, Jack needed answers. Twisting his chair a full 180 degrees he confronted the former love of his #life. 'Explain yourself, woman!' As if on cue, an reliable Watson came bounding athritically into the room, tail wagging flamboyantly amidst the commotion. Then immediately deserting all hope of having any say in this inferior squabble between humans, he set his sights on acquiring the sausages instead, still sizzling away just out of nose-reach. Unabashed, the woman explained herself. 'Well it's quite simple really..' 'Oh?' he squeaked. '.. I bumped into poor old Gwendylene yesterday at the fruit market...' 'Did you now?'
