Sunday, 22 February 2015

An Island Paradise?

“You said it was romantic at the time,” he spat, his eyes boring into her very core.

She turned her back disdainfully. “That was three years ago,” she replied huffily. “I was expecting things to have moved on a little by now. I’m fed up with the whole thing. I’m always picking sand out from between my toes. I’m sick of this place. And when are we going to have something different to eat! Every day, the same old thing. I can’t stand it any more!”

“You said you liked it,” he began defensively.

“Not every day!” she hissed. “We don’t even have any proper cutlery. My mother warned me about going out with a musician. I wish I’d listened to her. She always said you wouldn’t amount to anything. She knew what a rotten singer you were. ”

“Oh I might have known your mother was behind this. You loved my singing. ‘Charmingly sweet’ I think you called it.”

“Oh I didn’t know what I was talking about then. I was high on sea sickness tablets – bobbing about in that dreadful urine coloured dingy of yours.”

“It’s not urine coloured it’s…” he spluttered.

“Oh I know what colour you think it is, but look at it! A year and a day I sat in that thing. A YEAR AND A DAY! I know what colour it is, mate!”

“You’re just upset because all the honey has gone. Don’t worry. I’ll think of something. We still have plenty of money. We haven’t even broken into that fiver yet.”

“I’m not surprised we’ve still got plenty of money. There’s nothing here to spend anything on is there? That’s why I’m still wearing a ring that smells of pig!”

“Look, maybe we need to go back and talk to the turkey on the hill. Perhaps a bit of counselling might help. I’m sure he’d be just the person to help us talk through our problems.”

“It’s too late. My mind is made up. I’ve been busy while you wasted time strumming on your small guitar.”

He looked confused and watched her stroll nonchalantly over to a rock. She reached behind it and pulled out a surprisingly well made fiddle.

“Where did you…” he gasped.

"I made it,” she replied. “From finest bong tree wood.”

“But how did you…”

“Well, that runcible spoon is quite sharp,” she explained.

“And the strings?”

“Pig gut!” she snapped back, menacingly.

“You don’t mean…”

“Well, it was him or the turkey. Where do you think all the mince was coming from?”

He sank to the floor, too shocked to move.

With a flourish, she whisked the fiddle away and set off for the boat.

“There’s a fine moon tonight,” she shouted over her shoulder, “I’m off to find a particularly athletic cow!”

And with that she was gone, leaving him alone on the beach with a small pile of quince, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

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