Today I tweeted a story. 14 Tweets and that was it. I thought maybe I could call on the luck of the Irish today and get my Tweets in without too many interruptions.
See, I’m still a bit of a newbie on Twitter. I’m still learning about hash tags and how to use them over there. Also, I have a tenuous claim to call upon said Irish phenomenon re: good luck. I have the Irish grandfather. Yes, really. I’ve banged on here on my website re: my maiden name Micklefield and some possible interesting South African connections with that name in the Capetown area, but I have neglected to mention the name of the other side of my family. So, here it is.
My mother’s maiden name was O’Driscoll. So, today, on St Patrick’s Day, I call upon my ancestors to bestow upon me and my little 14 Tweet story the legs to reach the world and bring me a crock of gold.
I wish!
If you didn’t catch the 14 Tweet story on Twitter – here it is
14 Tweet story
When he got up, he didn’t notice anything different. She looked as if she was still asleep.
He had work to do. First, the sink to bleach; he liked the smell of it and she never did it properly. Then, his phone calls.
He made coffee. Went outdoors. The day was set fine. He’d be able to get those seedlings planted out.
He smiled, having the day to himself with no interference. Retirement meant doing exactly as he pleased. He’d earned the right.
At twelve, he began to feel hungry. He wondered, briefly, what she was planning for lunch, but there was still no sign of her.
He looked in the fridge and grabbed a crabstick. It wouldn’t spoil his appetite for later. There was no sound from the bedroom.
His stomach rumbled as he opened the bedroom door. He called her name. Her face was pale and still. Grey and unattractive.
He thought about the greyness of her. There was no wonder he hadn’t wanted to kiss any of it for years.
He made tea and enjoyed rearranging the caddies and repositioning cups in better places in the cupboard on the wall.
He spent the afternoon lining up plant pots. He finished the crabsticks. He thought her selfish not making him refreshment.
At seven, when he wanted his dinner, he realized she was dead. Brain haemorrhage, the doctor said. Ah well, he thought.
How could he have known she was dead? Why would any man make it part of his morning ritual to check if his partner was alive?
She’d done it on purpose, of course. To make him look bad.
Ah, well. Now she’d got everything she wanted. She’d always told him she felt she was dying inside.
THE END
(If you enjoyed this – please click the Twitter button at the bottom of the page and Re-Tweet this page. Thank you. I’ll share the crock of gold. Yeah, right!)
