Tuesday 200 — #82
He reckoned it might be time to make a change after getting emotionally involved with Lydia from Lincolnshire.
National Treasure Noel Edmonds had just revealed whether her box contained 50 pence or 50,000 pounds when the phone interrupted.
“Hello?” He sniffed.
“Hey you. Catching a cold?”
“I’m f-fine,” he said, blowing his nose.
“Are you … crying?”
Maybe, a little. No, nothing’s wrong. He’d really gotten to know Lydia the past couple weeks. Such a lovely woman (three grandkids, one deaf). Husband died in a parachuting accident. So happy she hadn’t dealt at £17,500. He’d miss her.
No, he hadn’t quit the Effexor. No, he hadn’t been drinking (well, not gin — maybe just a tipple of the stew’s Cabernet). Yes, he’d called the headhunters.
“Let’s be clear,” she said that night, over a steaming bowl of Bourguignon (which, honestly, was tastier than anything she’d ever made). “You stared at that idiot box, plucking through boxes of tissues, because you actually care about twenty-two people and their cardboard boxes?”
“Only twenty-one. That Simon from Stoke Newington’s ghastly. ” He had a sneer like their daughter’s ex-husband.
Turns out, his wife reckoned it was time to make a change.
:: :: ::