One less for lunch

‘Are you ready to order ladies?’ the waiter asked.
Every Thursday six old friends met for lunch in the town’s most fashionable eatery. But right now there were only five.
‘Not yet, we’ll just give Olivia a couple of minutes. She’s not normally late. I hope she’s alright.’
The restaurant was filling up, and instead of the usual contented mumbling there was an air of excitement about the place. Something must have happened and it was clearly the talk of the town.
The friends noticed that people were furtively glancing towards their table. Things were being whispered behind hands. What was going on?
A man walked through the door. He looked around. Seeing the friends, he walked over to their table.
He introduced himself as Olivia’s PA from her office. They could tell from the pained expression on his face that something was seriously wrong.
‘Olivia met ....a man last night’ he started. ‘You are not going to believe what I’m about to tell you. I hardly believe it myself’
He sat down and helped himself to a glass of wine. His hand was shaking.
It seems that Olivia had met this man before. She had been charmed by him on many an occasion, but last night she had given in to his seductive ways. When she woke in the morning he was gone.
What happened next was totally unbelievable. Early that morning she went looking for him, and burst into his office where she produced a gun from underneath her cloak. All it took was a single shot and he was no more.
In no time at all the police arrived and she was taken away and placed in a cell at the station.
Minutes later a gang had rushed the police station and taken Olivia away at gunpoint.
He dropped his head into his hands and took a few deep breaths. He suddenly composed himself, sat bolt upright and told them that Olivia had been found left for dead on some waste ground just outside the town. She was rushed to the hospital where they fought to save her as she became weaker and weaker.
‘She had asked to see me’ he continued. ‘I was just in time. With her dying breath she gave me this message to bring to you’
‘Miss Olivia regrets she’s unable to lunch today’
Loosely based on the lyrics of the 1934 Cole Porter song ‘Miss Otis Regrets’

.

.

a poem

The Family

She tends the home
and three
Time passes by
quickly
He works all hours
God sends
No time for her
or them
Slowly they drift
apart
Gone the affairs
of the heart
Now it’s just her
and three
No more do him
they see
The end

wordless wednesday - let's eat out!

.
.
.

.
.

.

.

.

.
.

.

.

.

To see more pictures of Backstreet Brighton click HERE

.

.

A passing stranger

The night is as still as the grave. Everything around glistens white with the harsh winter frost.


My white breath drifts skyward as a shimmering moon shoots shafts of silver light twixt the frozen trees and across a blanket of pure white snow.

So bright is the light that long black shadows stretch out from the hedgerows and wooden poles that line the narrow lane. My own walks alongside me.

I see the vague figure of a man coming towards me. He wears a hooded cloak and although he becomes clearer in the moonlight as he approaches, I am unable to make out his face. Just a hollow void.

As we pass I nod my head in greeting, but it’s as if he doesn’t see me. I look over my shoulder and notice he has no shadow, and leaves no footprints in the virgin snow.

Suddenly I am blasted with a rush of freezing wind that stings my face – then it is stops as suddenly as it started.

When I open my eyes he is gone.

A vicious circle

The British Broadcasting Corporation in its role as the UK’s public service broadcaster has a responsibility to the licence paying public to report both domestic and international news in an unbiased and accurate manner.


The current crisis within the world economy dominates the news output on both BBC Radio and television, none more so than on its speech based 24 hour station Radio Five Live.


I don’t suppose the UK is alone in witnessing the tragic loss of famous names in our high streets and malls. Stores like Woolworths which had served generations of families for 99 years.


So what has this to do with the ‘Beeb’? I suggest quite a lot as the broadcaster has to tread a fine line between keeping its audience informed and scaremongering.


Daily we are told of the rising unemployment total, and the latest companies to close or reduce their workforce. So called experts are paraded before us to hand out dire warnings of worse to come.


So what happens? We are scared into putting off that major purchase. We economise and save rather than spend. I know, I‘m doing it myself.


Shop takings fall, their bankers are unwilling to help as they are seen as a bad risk and as a result they go out of business. There follows a knock-on effect as manufacturers and suppliers lose their markets. It’s a vicious circle.






No-one suggests that national broadcasters should withhold information, or select what they tell or don’t tell us. History is littered with the casualties of such policies. They must however be ever aware of the influence they have over the way we act and react.






.

He's not the one for Rosey!

I thought it was a silly idea. The last thing Rosey needs right now is a relationship. I suppose you could say that I’m being a bit possessive, not wanting to lose a mate from our happy band of friends, but I honestly believe that she has quite enough going on her life right now to keep her fully occupied.
.
Anyway, her work colleagues arranged for her to meet a young man whom they thought would make the perfect boyfriend. Rosey asked a few of our circle of friends to go along to give her moral support.


He arrived late – not a good start, and was clearly a little taken aback to find her sitting with four assorted friends! He introduced himself as one Simon Pargiter-Pratt. In his hand he held a bunch of wilting flowers.


He was a lanky, rather awkward looking young man whom I assumed to be in his late twenties. There he stood every bit the country squire in a pair of camel trousers, an Oxford check shirt, university tie and a fine tweed jacket. You could see your reflection in his chestnut brown brogues.


However his boyish and somewhat blotchy complexion made him look a fair bit younger, and judging by the bum-fluff on his chin it appeared quite possible that he’d not yet felt the need to start shaving!


It seems he had recently qualified as a vet and joined a local practice with the unlikely name of Nine Lives.


Simon proffered his hand, and just as Rosey was about to give it a shake she recoiled and said ‘I’d rather not; I don’t know where it’s been!’


At least that broke the ice. Simon dissolved into laughter –he sort of went ‘hwa-hwa-hwa’ - and we laughed along!


Rosey quickly realised that witty banter could well be the way forward, and when Simon asked about her family she said ‘I am the youngest of three, my parents are both older than me!’


‘hwa-hwa-hwa’


‘And’ said Rosey ‘My family is mixed race – my father does the hundred metres but my mother prefers the relay!’


‘hwa-hwa- hwa’


By now we were all laughing along, and Rosey had everyone in the palm of her hand. But I know Rosey well enough to realise that she was using her amusing repartee to disguise the fact that she was not in the least bit interested in Mr Pargiter-Pratt!


I decided that perhaps I should take over the conversation and get our new friend to talk about his calling.


‘So Simon’ I said ‘What have you been vetting this afternoon?’


‘hwa-hwa-hwa-hwa, vetting, I like that’ he guffawed.


‘Actually Kev, I was looking at a problem which has occurred within a couple of Carinthian Blondviehs. The poor creatures caught coccidiosis’


‘Sounds very interesting, doesn’t it Kev?’ said Rosey looking at me with a half grin on her face. ‘Do tell us more’


‘Well’ started Simon ‘Typical signs of coccidiosis are diarrhea, rough coat, loss of appetite and weight, and general emaciation. The general weakness may cause the calf to defecate without rising, thus soiling its tail and hindquarters. In more severe cases the manure may contain blood, mucus, and stringy masses of tissue’


‘I’m sure my Grannie died of that’ said Rosey with sad look on her face.


‘Actually Rosemary’ said Simon ‘this particular condition is confined to bovine species, and unless your Grandmother was a cow.....’


‘She could be at times!’ interrupted Rosey and with that we all broke into uncontrollable laughter.


I have to say, I felt sorry for Rosey’s prospective suitor. We tried to involve him in some light conversation but it was clear he found our bar-room banter somewhat trivial.


He meant well, but he simply was not, nor would he ever be one of us. He realised that things would never go any further, and with a somewhat crestfallen look he thanked us for our company and bid us all farewell.


‘It wouldn’t have worked’ said Rosey. I mean can you imagine me being called Rosemary Pinkerton-Pargiter- Pratt? What a mouthful!’
...
.

The collection

I wrote this piece for Sunday Scribblings 'Pilgrimage' and Fiction Friday 'Collection'
''
May I read it to you? If so, click on arrow
.

.
“Have you seen my scarf darling, the blue one?”called Jonathon as he searched under the coats and jackets that hung by the door.

Julia sighed, and with a half smile said “You’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on!”

Just lately one thing after another had vanished. Nothing of particular importance. A pen, only a cheap one, but one he liked to use. He’d also mislaid a photograph of himself receiving an award at his firm’s dinner, and another of him reclining on a sun bed. And what happened to last year’s diary? He needed to look up a detail about a meeting, but it was nowhere to be seen.

“Good morning Julia”. Cheryl, their home help breezed into the kitchen with her usual cheery smile.”Jonathan left for work already? I’ll start my cleaning with his study today” she said as she tied the strings on her apron.

Cheryl was a stickler for tidiness. Trouble was she was so tidy that Jonathan often couldn’t lay his hands on things which he had known the exact position of before Cheryl sorted them out.

“I found these in the rubbish bin” she said. Julia looked into the plastic bag and saw a pile of old greetings cards, from birthdays and Christmases past.

“Mind if I take them” she said. “I can put them to good use”

Julia saw no reason why she shouldn’t. Jonathan was a bit of a hoarder, so she was delighted to see the back of them.

One afternoon just as Cheryl was about to leave, Julia asked if her if she would like to take a bag of Jonathans old clothes with her – they were almost new but not often worn. Maybe she could sell them at the church jumble sale. She took them willingly.

*

Cheryl liked to be alone in Jonathon’s study. Behind the closed door she could go through his things and imagine what it must be like for Julia, having him all to herself.

What made her do it, she didn’t really know, but one day she picked up the picture of Julia which sat on the desk and unscrewed the back of the photo frame. It was as if she knew what she would find inside. And there under Julia’s portrait was a faded picture of a young girl with the fairest hair and the palest blue eyes. And by her side a youthful Jonathan, his arm draped over her shoulder.

She took the photo over to the mirror and held it alongside her face. Her smile melted away.
Time had not been kind to her. She took off her spectacles and stared into the glass. Gone the smooth skin and alabaster complexion. Her furrowed brow and tired eyes were a testament to twenty years of sadness and longing. That cropped back hair never really suited her, but it was necessary.

Nothing remained of the girl she was except for her pale blue eyes.

*

It was a cold cruel winter’s day. Cheryl telephoned to say she was unwell and asked if Jonathon could call around that evening with a coat she had left behind the previous day.

She got from her wardrobe the dress she had worn the night Jonathan had walked away from her. It was faded, and no longer fitted properly. She sat in front of the mirror and tried to recreate the face she saw in that picture from all those years ago. Then she slipped on a wig of the fairest hair, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

Leaving the door ajar, she retired to a candlelit room at the back of the house and waited for Jonathon to arrive.

When he did so, she called for him to come on in. He followed her voice and walked slowly towards her.

What he saw took his breath away. In the flickering light of a score of candles he found himself surrounded by his own possessions, old photos, keepsakes and dozens of things he thought he’d mislaid. And there in the corner she sat on a chair, grotesque, absurd.

He froze, unable to think, let alone speak.

She stood and slowly walked across the room, to where he stood, motionless, and wrapped a blue scarf around his neck. She twisted it tighter and tighter until he was no longer able to breathe.

She left the room and turned the key in the lock. Her collection was complete.

.

.

.
.
Rosey has a new post. It's mildly amusing and bound to get more hits than any of mine! Click HERE if you must!



'
'
,

The funeral of a friend

The rain washed across the bleak hillside driven on by a buffeting gale. Thirty or so sombre folk huddled around an open grave as a wicker coffin was lowered into the ground. One by one they dropped rose petals into his final resting place whilst the wind carried many more, twisting and circling into sky, then disappearing into the gloom beyond.

The day had started appropriately in a room at a pub. For he loved pubs – he had one of his own for many years. There we learned things about our friend’s life we never previously knew. We learned that the name we knew him by wasn’t his actual name at all! He was also younger than he claimed, not much older than me, and some of his occupations were less glamorous than we imagined. But then he was famous for using a little poetic license if it made his endless stories more entertaining. And the stories just kept coming.

His bizarre taste in clothes could best be described as eclectic verging on excentric. Bright colours which clashed, patterned braces and a fancy walking stick which would look ridiculous on anyone else, but on him it worked.

Eleven months ago his beloved wife died. They were a devoted couple, and he never fully recovered from his loss. They had travelled a lot, and he carried on travelling the world on his own until just a few weeks ago. He had another journey planned, but not the one he started today.

He was not a religious man in the conventional manner, but he was spiritual. He believed that he would eventually go to another place and once again be reunited with his wife. He carried her ashes with him when he was buried today.

Later, back at our local pub, we mingled and reflected on the man we all loved. His bar stool stood empty but for a sign saying reserved and his photograph propped up on its seat.

Tomorrow a tree will be planted on his grave. Rest in peace Frank - sorry, Ernest!

.
Frank, I've got a piece of music at the top of my playlist by one of your favourite singers, Runrig. He's singing in Gaelic so I have no idea what its about - I just hope it's appropriate!

.

.

Organically speaking

'

'

I was wondering the other day just how many people really can tell the difference in taste between organic and non-organic foods.

Say I was to line up three potatoes, or some lettuces, or strawberries even, and I told you that one was organically grown, one grown with old style pesticides and manmade fertilizers, and the other genetically modified. In a blindfold test, could you identify which was which?

I was a chef until recently and when it became fashionable to advertise organic foods on a menu, I fell in line. But I can honestly say that I could hardly ever justify the higher prices I had to pay in terms of taste.

It does of course take years of inactivity before a field can be considered ready for the production of organic crops, years during which those fields earn nothing for the farmer. Organic growing is more ‘hands on’ than conventional production with the resultant increase in labour costs. The amount of crops rejected due to poor quality is bound to higher. This all adds to the higher ticket price.

I’m certain that there is a lot of snobbishness where organic food is concerned. Some people like to be seen loading fruit and vegetables from the organic section into their shopping trolley. They like to tell their friends at a dinner party “these are organic peas of course. I get them from that little farmer chappy down the lane”

But maybe I’m the one that’s wrong. Perhaps I’m telling my taste buds to ignore the difference! Perhaps I should be championing the organic cause rather than questioning it.

.

There is of course far more to the organic issue than taste and price. I am in no doubt that organic farming methods are of great benefit to the environment, not just in the short term but for future generations too.

.

A year of My Friend Rosey

It was on January 9 last year that I wrote my first Rosey story. I knew from the comments I received that she would have to become a permanent part of my blog.


So I thought I’d scan through the comments left at the bottom of my Rosey stories and relive the best.
.
One of the first was from Annie Elf and she said...

Omigosh Keith, this is a riot. it's 8:25 in the a.m. and I’ve just settled into my desk and the day's work. my day can only get better from here. Rosey is a jewel. I will love reading more of her adventures.
A few days later I wrote another one about Rosey’s naivety. It got a load of comments, like this one from Morgatron


Morgy loves Rosy ... and all people like her.
.
Marja said...


That cute Rosey of yours keeps you (and me in this case) entertained.Cheeky Rosey. Can't wait till her next adventure.


When I wrote about Rosey playing darts Dickiebo said...


If she's on a 'Free Transfer', then we'll take her. Please send to: The Beaufort Arms, Mumbles. Thanks.DB. Darts Capitano.


This was a nice one. It was a in response to her biography which I published in February . UL said...


I am already imagining the prince charming who would marry her and awaiting the happily ever-after :) Go go Rosey :)
When I told you about the time Rosey made a mess of eating a meal Tory said...


Rosey and I have a lot in common!! You can always tell by the end of the day, what I've eaten all day long. One time in a very fancy restaurant, I ordered the escargot and had a heck of a time with those tong thingies. The snail shot right out of them, traced a trail of garlic butter over the front of my silk dress and jumped off over my left shoulder. I did not skip a beat, I picked up the next one as if it weren't me who had just done that! I have no idea where it landed.
And Bellamocha said...
Why do your meals out sound so much more fun than mine??!!I'm warning you, you'll have a whole crowd of us hunting you and Rosey down for a good meal!
I wrote about Rosey’s excitable pony and Little Wing said...


I am absolutely rolling on the floor laughing!Oh that naughty little stallion of hers!!!!!!!!Grew a fifth leg, BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!!!!


When she got a new job as a school classroom assistant, Jadey said...


What another great Rosey post. She is always up to something now isn't she? Looks like Rosey has found her niche this time working with the kids and getting to be one. Can't think of a better job.


Rosey’s lessons in first aid attracted quite a few remarks. Janet said...


My children are wondering why I'm giggling so hard. You should put all of Rosey's adventures into a book, "The World Through Rosey-Colored Glasses."


Rebicmel said...


I am laughing so hard my ribs are hurting, what a sight lol. OMG this is great.
Giggles said...
Keith I love the antics of Rosey! What an interesting character...are you sure she's not blond! Just jesting! She is for sure precious! The naivety is priceless! Love it!
A few months back I thought I’d give Rosey a rest. I’d written so much about her and I thought people might have heard enough of her. How wrong I was! When she came back I was left in no mind what people thought of her.
.
Paisley said...


I have missed Rosey and I am thrilled she is back and seems ever ready to provide us with a reading delight every so often....


Gautami tripathy said...


I am so glad Rosey is back from her vacation. I have missed her so much. Tell her not to go anywhere without informing us!

Missy said...


Rosey is so much a part of your writing. It's like there is a void when we don't hear about her!!

Rosey took up knitting with fairly predictable results and a record number of comments.


Granny Smith said...


I'm a great fan of Rosey! Her stories are riveting. (Remember "Rosy the Riveter" from WWII?) Your sense of humor (humour?) is wonderfully entertaining
Shadow said...
This is precious! Are you sure you're not making this all up?!?!?!
anthonynorth said...
I suppose she was quite a knit-wit.I know, but I couldn't resist.

Tammie Lee said...
Oh my gosh, your story is wonderful. I even chuckled out loud. Thank you.


Jennifer Hicks said...


Funny that she didn't notice the sweater unravelling! sounds like a piece of contemporary performance art to me - if I were in the pub, I might have thought that was intentional! b said...


This story made me laugh and brought tears to my eyes. Oh your dear Rosey! My friend's name is Carole Ann. She is such a dear and does most of her shopping at goodwill industries. But she pulls it off...with a lot of style! In November Rosey started her own blog – Roseys Posey


marja said...


Rosey is a real star and it is fantastic that she now shines on her own blog. I had a quick peek and she sure is adorable

Rosey made a few unfortunate comments to complete strangers in the pub a few weeks back.


Giggles said...


haha this whole post made me chuckle as always! What a character, gotta love her! "And it was then that Rosey saw a rather unfortunate spot on the end of the girl’s nose.........." made me laugh out loud!!I suppose Rosey will read this. Hope she isn't offended!


Shadow said...


Oh dear Rosey... mind you, I’ve done that baby faux pas too. now i don't congratulate anyone until I’m clearly told they're pregnant, finished!


Lucy said...


I just ADORE roseys style! she is a hoot!


Janet said...


That reminds me of some comedian (maybe Jerry Seinfeld) who said, "Never ask a woman if she is pregnant unless you actually see a baby emerging from her at that moment."Poor Rosey. I have those days myself.
I’ll finish off with a couple of my favourites.
. Rinkly Rimes said...


Rosey sounds like a delightful liability! A friend we should all have!

Rebecca said...


I’ve always loved your tales on Rosey. I actually just put her site on my sidebar. There is a bit of innocence about her, a child-like quality that makes her very charming.

And Whitesnake said...


I rang a pizza place and asked if they deliver they said yes so I asked for a large pizza with liver and pineapple he said they dont do liver I said ya told me ya did........!


I could go on and on but I think that's enough to be getting on with! Right now I'm off to buy her a drink or two!

.


.

The Day Job!

'
I’ve been working in a Friary this week! No, I’ve not become a monk! In this Friary the only thing worshipped is the cash register! The nearest thing to a friar there is the cauldron of bubbling oil in which McDonalds cooks those chewy apologies for chips! Mind you, I did see a gentleman of somewhat rotund proportions today who struck a remarkable resemblance to Friar Tuck!
Since I gave up working in kitchens I’ve been selling kitchens instead and for the last few days I’ve been manning an Exhibition stand in the Friary Shopping Mall. Hour after hour I attempt to lure folk into my lair where I entertain them with a hundred fascinating facts they didn’t know about medium density fibreboard, and tempt them to prod the solid bottom in my drawers. There I guess my answers to a thousand interesting (yawn) questions and keep my fingers firmly crossed behind my back when assuring a potential customer about our company’s strong financial position.

All life passes by! Frenzied shoppers scurry along weighed down with bundles of bulging bags. Husbands slouch along several feet behind their rattled wives who are unable to understand why anyone could fail to find rushing in and out of shops an uplifting experience.

Parents push their buggies, often totally oblivious to the fact that their bored offspring is inflicting pain on the ears of their fellow shoppers with its shrill screaming.

An assistant from the shop opposite makes hourly visits to the street outside to satisfy her craving for nicotine. She dodges in and out of the advancing hoard clearly visible thanks to a bright yellow jacket which gives her the appearance of a jar of Coleman’s mustard.

School is still out, and the Friary becomes a meeting place for groups of bored teenagers. Boys with boys, girls with girls and rarely the twain do meet!

The standard trendy boy uniform consists of a hooded fleece which stubbornly ends several inches above drooping jeans which seem to defy gravity, suspended as they are mid-bum. Little do they realise that this ‘fashion’ was started by prisoners protesting about the removal of their belts when taken into custody! Somewhere under the frayed jeans bottoms which drag along the floor, lurk the latest must-have trainers.

One girl looks very much like another. A fleece of course, usually with an advertisement for its maker emblazoned across the front. That is followed by micro denim shorts from which legs of varying shapes and sizes protrude clad in skin tight black tights. They finish the whole effect off by sticking their feet in a couple of flower pots! At least, that’s what they look like. I understand they are known as Ugg Boots. Presumably Ugg is short for ugly, for even very new ones soon take on a lop-sided misshapen appearance.

Then there are the mall characters. Every centre has a few. At The Friary an elderly lady with a white beard worthy of Santa Claus wanders around all day, while a podgy little man with a permanent grin spends his day travelling up and down on the escalators.

We also get the high speed brochure grabber who is determined to snatch a leaflet even though they have no idea what it’s about. And then there are the toddlers who clamp their little hands vice-like onto the other end of the brochure I am holding and tug until their cheeks glow. I am often tempted to suddenly let go and see how far the little devil flies backwards!

.

We could make it a daily competition for all those working on our stands. The one whose 30 inch enemy flies the furthest wins!

'
We get to know the security guards. They also have a distinctive look with the shiny bald head being as much a part of their image as the walkie-talkie hanging from their belts, with its disembodied voice screeching and ignored.

I did my last day at The Friary today. Tomorrow it will be The Glades in a built up area of South London, Maybe there was a glade there once. Then it will be the oddly named Exchange – what it was exchanged for I have no idea!

.

.

By the way, that's my friend and workmate (but mostly my friend) Miriam in the photo at the top! Click on pic to enlarge.

.

.

For poorer read richer.

For richer or poorer. Words so often uttered without a thought then thrown into the air to be blown away on the breeze.


Riches so often conceal a true poverty. When all one desires is an arm’s length away, everything is taken for granted. Never the thrill of the chase, or the satisfaction of achievement.


Yet poverty can bring with it a richness all of its own. To make ends meet when all seems hopeless can lift the soul. A modest treat when treats are scarce is worth far more than the small amount it cost.


Everyone no matter how poor can enjoy riches that transcend material possessions and wealth.


For poorer, read richer.
.
.

Resolutionary Rosey

Just after Christmas a few of us met for a drink at The Bike. For once Rosey turned up on time – our time that is, not hers! We told her to be there at seven although we actually didn’t intend getting there until eight, and she was duly sitting 
there when we arrived!


‘You are late!’ she shrilled. We just gave each other a knowing smile.


She had in fact been there twenty minutes and whilst waiting she’d accepted a chardonnay or two from a couple of locals.


Actually she was a little wobbly and when she came to meet us and she had forgotten she was sitting on a high stool rather than a low chair. Consequently she almost fell flat on her face!


‘Bugga’ she said


‘Rosey’ said I
.


‘What’ said Rosey


‘I wish you wouldn’t use such un-ladylike expletives’ said I


‘Sowwie’ said Rosey resting her chin on her finger and putting on her well practiced innocent-little-girl expression.


Anyway we talked about this and that and then suddenly, with a flourish deserving of a thespian, she produced a crumpled piece of paper from her overstuffed suitcase sized handbag.


‘These’ she proclaimed ‘are my New Year resolutions’


When the laughter calmed down we realised she was serious. She read somewhere that a good way to help yourself stick to your resolutions is to write them down, show them to your friends and get them to witness your promises with their signatures. We commented that for once she seemed really organised, and with that she pointed to resolution one – be more organised!


Unfortunately she forgot to bring a pen!


Number two was always be on time, three drink less, four be less clumsy, and five stop swearing
We borrowed a writing implement from the bar tender and each made a scribble which more or less represented our signature – Amanda drew a cross !


It then occurred to us that she’d broken each and every one of them in the hour or so we’d been there, so how she was going to manage in the new year we couldn’t imagine!
.

*

We went to the Bulls Head to see in the New Year. Four of us were sat around a little round table right by the log fire. Rosey was late. Fashionably late she called it when she arrived.


She drank a little more than usual, knocked over my pint and cursed quietly hoping not to be heard.


'Resolutions Rosey?' I said


‘It’s not midnight yet!’ she giggled


‘It is now’ I said as Big Ben chimed in 2009.


Everybody wanted to give Rosey a kiss, so she decided to work her way around the pub employing a logical and organised route. It went wrong. Some got three kisses, some none! Resolution one off to a rocky start!


She barged her way from person to person completely unaware that beer and wine was sploshing everywhere in her wake. So much for resolution four.


Number three had gone straight out of the window, but then everyone was having a little too much to drink tonight.


Resolution two was no problem, although it could be argued that she was a little late offering to buy a round of drinks!


‘So that’s four of your resolutions broken Rosey’ I laughed. ‘Just number five to go’


‘Oh ****** the revolutions’ she yelled ‘who’s round is it?’