It’s always the same. One minute you’re getting hammered because you drive an “urban assault vehicle”, and the next it’s “Hey, we’re moving this weekend . . .”
Should have just said no, but as usual, I said yes.
I have no idea what they planned to do about the fridge, which was full of left-over
lentil burgers, remnants of breezer six-packs and half-eaten tins of dog food. And the smell.
They looked disappointed when I grabbed the washing machine, and someone to help
me get it outside.
We noticed something in the machine just as I went to close the tailgate. As I reached in and unfurled it, I knew instantly it was the dog blanket – this was confirmed by a blood-curdling growl behind us.
I threw the blanket as hard as I could, and it caught the dog mid-leap. We jumped in the front of the car, and I floored it.
Should have closed the tailgate, though.
In the fine tradition of Friday Flash Fiction, I’m going to share some old and new super short pieces periodically. This was written earlier this year for a competition
“You don’t need an architect to do THAT!”
I was trying to be polite. It was a rather sad looking caravan. It looked like it had run a marathon and collapsed in the middle of the front lawn. This was not what I expected to see when responding to a request to “design a renovation of our retirement home”.
“It’s very simple”, said my potential client. “Everyone else we’ve talked to has said we’re mad.”
Curiosity got the better of me.
“Well, I can’t promise anything at this stage. What have you got in mind?”
Sometimes, there’s a fine line between grand vision and insanity, but not in
“And if we suspend the treadmill from the ceiling, we can lower it to the
floor somehow when it’s time for a workout.”
The treadmill lurked beside an old BBQ, partly overgrown by unmowed
“So, what’s your budget?”