RICHARDS BAD DAY

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
a very bad day

Submitted: June 12, 2009

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Submitted: June 12, 2009

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The dream began to turn ugly; the pretty girls with no clothes on started to look more and more like Mrs Thatcher. As Britain’s ex prime minister began to try and French kiss him, Richard turned and tried to run away screaming in terror and revulsion, as clutching claw like hands reached for him, the ground turned to treacle holding him back as he was gradually surrounded by clawing, wailing hags, imploring him to do what Dennis used to do. It was one of the rare occasions when Richard was thankful of being awoken by the battered old alarm clock. He lay still for a moment breathing deeply, hoping that the dream would fade quickly the way dreams usually do, no such luck. He swung his legs out of bed, hoisted himself up and began to totter toward the bathroom with an overfull bladder; halfway to the door he stubbed his toe against the chest of drawers. It doesn’t sound much does it, stubbing your toe? But I am sure that there are many people out there who know exactly what kind of torturous agony a simple toe stubbing incident can bring about. He sat for a while on the end of the bed nursing the damaged digit and bemoaning his lot. His eye strayed to the clock, he was already ten minutes behind in his morning schedule which was tight at the best of times, and he speed limped toward the bathroom.
The day continued as it had begun, he burned the toast and the milk was off, although he didn’t realise this until he’d taken a large swig out of the carton and he couldn’t find his car keys. He grabbed his coat, there was a reassuring metallic jingle from the pocket, and with relief he slammed the front door. Next doors ginger tom was relieving itself in his flower bed having scratched out the few remaining plants; he waved his arms ineffectually and shouted scat as he ran to his car. The cat merely looked at him with an air of concentration. He jumped into his shitty metro, twisting the key as he stamped on the throttle and was rewarded with a backfire as the car coughed into life. He quickly reversed down the drive; part way down there was an unexpected bump. He braked the car to a stop and had a sudden premonition what the bump might have been; sure enough Felix the ginger tom had shuffled off his mortal coil. Richard knew that Mrs Nugent was very attached to her cat to the point where she had bought it a scaled down four poster bed for it, and only fed it fresh fish bought daily from Harrods food hall. He was actually quite fond of Mrs Nugent, or rather her lemon meringue pies. He knew that sorry probably wasn’t going to cut it. He spotted a piece of cardboard which had been thrown in his garden during one of next doors all night reggae parties, and a nasty little plan formed in his mind. Using the sheet of discarded cardboard he carefully slid it under the flattened cat corpse and scooped it up like a furry pizza. He walked over to the reggae fans BMW and gently slid the remains under the back wheel, jumped into his car and sped off. He was now already twenty minutes late for work and the traffic was really heavy.
The day had hardly begun and yet he already had a headache, one of those nasty temple throbbers, as he tried to relieve some of the tension in his neck he came up to a roundabout in the wrong lane. He indicated desperately, trying to edge into a rapidly shrinking space in the lane to his right and was rewarded with a spate of horn honking, and an obscene gesture and a gout of profanity from a belligerent cabby. In a little over twenty five minutes he would have to give a presentation and he’d just realised that his briefcase was on the chair by the door at home, he would have to give the talk without his notes. He toyed with the idea of going straight home and phoning in sick, but then remembered the little talk with Mr Henderson, and the thinly veiled threats regarding his absenteeism. He sprinted up the corridor to the little room where he was due to give his talk. He plunged into the room, a wild eyed, scruffily dressed madman with cat entrails in his trouser turn ups and prepared to give a talk to the assembled middle management types on how to deal with stress,and time management.


© Copyright 2020 Richard M Bromley. All rights reserved.

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