She turns at my
voice, drinks me in,
she’s tiny eyes
and double chin.
Utter disgust.
Nose wrinkles.
‘Where do I
begin?’ She booms:
her ford fiesta
wouldn’t start this morning and
her daughter’s
off with flu and
her husband’s
always tired and
like a shepherd
to the dullest sheep in existence,
I manoeuvre the
conversation back to the matter at hand,
namely:
What the fuck do
you want?
Bubble bath. I
show the range.
No. No no no
these will not do.
Oh dear God the
one thing that was keeping her going.
Can the wife of
successful golf club owner,
avid Woman at Home reader and
proud holder of
the ‘Best Sewer in Sunderland’ award 1993
find no help in
obtaining that one thing?
I have failed. I
have failed in my birthright, my
God-given duty,
of finding Mrs. Parker that
Holy Grail of
luxury hygiene.
I am on my
knees, but nothing will do.
‘I’m so sorry,
goodbye,
it was nice to
meet you.’
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