I wrote this specially for this week’s Sunday Scribblings 2 where our prompt word is thorn.
A few of us were in the local Chinese the other night. My friend Rosey was pulling a funny face and rubbing her arm. Nobody took much notice; she’s known for pulling funny faces. Then she started making a strange moaning sound. Jenny looked at her, pulled a quizzical expression then looked away again. Clearly not getting the reaction she wanted and craving sympathy, Rosey suddenly shouted “Ouch”.
John was the first to give in. “What’s up Rosey, you in pain 'ole luv?”
“Oh nothing” she said with a dramatic sweep of her head.”Don’t worry about me”.
“Tell us Rosey” said Jenny with an exasperated look on her face.
"Well" said Rosey “If you must know I tripped over down at my allotment. I was waving to Jim a few plots down and not looking where I was going. I felt a bit of a prick and.........”
“Enough of the crude language Rosey, that’s not like you!” said a stunned John who then started laughing.
“If you’ll just let me finish John” she continued “I felt a prick in my arm because I’d fallen into my prize winning Rockwall Sesquicentennial Pioneer Shrub Rose, and one of its thorns stabbed me right here... just like this John” She suddenly poked him hard in the ribs with her finger instantly wiping the grin from his face.
“Don’t be such a thorn in my side” he said. He turned to me. “‘A thorn in my side, get it, get it” I slowly nodded. Back came the grin. “Anyway with a name like Rosey you should be used to thorns!”
“What’s in a name? That which we call a Rosey by any other name would smell as sweet. That’s from Rosey-o and Juliet!” she chuckled.
“The way of the sluggard is blocked with thorns, but the path of the upright is a highway” uttered Holy Jo. We call him that because he’s always got a quote from the Bible to hand. “Proverbs 15 verse 19, the New International Version” he continued. He then wandered back into his own thoughts.
“Roses are red, violets are blue, most poems rhyme, but this one doesn't” piped up Simon who had been quietly observing up to that point.
“He who wants the Rosey must respect the thorn. That’s a Persian proverb” said Rosey. “For I am a Rosey among thorns” she said pointing to us one at a time. She remembered her wounded arm started rubbing it again. “I need a glass of Chardonnay to ease the pain. Your round John”