At a quarter to four she said “I’ll pick you up at seven,” and I believed her. Now that we’re somewhere south of twenty past the time she chose I’m starting to have my doubts.
If she’s not here by half past I’ll send the babysitter home. It’s a shame and all because I don’t really go out much these days and the kids were out by six forty-five. I’m sure she’s got a good reason and it’s probably for the best anyway.
Seven twenty-eight. Two more minutes and that’s it. Probably got time to get fish and chips and be back by eight for the game. Rosie will hang on with the kids while I go and oh bloody hell that’s the door.
“Hiya! Sorry I’m so late.”
She looks lovely don’t muck it up.
“You’re not late. I’m sure you said seven thirty. I’ll grab my jacket.”
And so dear reader we come to the end of the Wednesday Total Failure phase of my writing journey – or the WTF as I have grown fond of calling it. You can have too much of a good thing and I refuse to spoil you further with my 150 word snippets of nonsense. This week’s sign-off effort was brought to you by the word PICK.
There’s a rumour going around that I might write a proper blog post or (perish the thought) an actual story some time soon. I can neither confirm nor deny the veracity of such a claim…