The Fridge

February 18, 2010


People always sat laughing on that abandoned sofa outside the flat. Thought they were definitely well fucking wild sitting on a couch in the street; it made him want to cough stinging phlegm into his Ready Brek, seeing them there in the mornings, on their way home from a cocking discotheque no doubt, overindulged spaniels every one.

He was about to head down to the petrol station to pick up the rice he needed for the bathroom when the phone rang:

“It’s me.”
“Who the fuck’s me then?”

He felt his scalp tighten as though he was suddenly in the middle of a tricky bomb disposal exercise in a kindergarten full of baby deer. He hadn’t heard from Rachel since the incident with the barmaid; a series of misunderstandings had resulted one evening in a barmaid at the pub they were in pouring pork-scratchings into his pants while a bouncer held him down and tickled him on the nose with a sanitary towel.

“How’s the fridge?”
“Your fridge, you said it needed repaired.”
“The fridge is fine Jack, thanks for your concern.”
“Well, I … I’m just worried in case you’re … without the use of a fridge because you can use mine anytime you want.”
“No I’m OK for fridge provision Jack.”
“I take it you’re not planning to apologise then?”
“Ehm, yeah I just didn’t think you’d want to know.”
“It’s not bullshit I’ve been thinking about how to apologise constantly.”
“Ok then, what are you meant to be apologising for?”

She hung up the phone. Fucking women. He certainly wasn’t a bloody slave to them, he wouldn’t be running about after some fucking obnoxious bitch and anyway, he had to walk past her building on the way to the Citizens Advice Bureau to pick up some leaflets about noise pollution or something.