Fact or Fiction
“No. Fifty. Fifty. Five – oh, can you believe? In fact, our fifteen year old bab-, our teenage babysitters wouldn’t even do that.”
“Well, sure? They might.”
“I guess, anyway, I was livid, you can imagine. I mean how can you live with yourself, how can you sleep at night?”
“I know, it is appalling, did you say anything?”
“No. Well … no.”
“Well, you should, you really should. Have you seen this? I saw it earlier, hang on, I’ll look for it. They put one through our door, through everyone’s door, I guess. I hope anyway, maybe. Maybe just ours. Imagine if they had.”
“Oh, yes, very … interesting. Odd. Did I tell you about the yellow bucket? They wanted one up at the school, I asked ‘Does it have to be yellow?’ and the answer was, you can imagine, was at best inconclusive, so I called and the receptionist refused to put me through – you know the one – and so I said, ‘Its a fucking bucket, alright? Its orange and the fuck’s up with that?’ and she got all croaky and hung up, so I don’t know what I’m going to do? I’ll just send her in with that one, I guess.”
“Just send her in with that one.”
The kitchen fell quiet for now, and the silence was only interrupted, gradually, as the kettle rose to a boil. The short reprieve of a sigh before it climaxed in a frenzy of noise and steam.
She did not look, or wait for a reply, she made it already. Opening a box of jaffa cakes they each took only one.
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