Sunday's Short Story

...another from two hours of Thursday mornings at the Writers Workshop...

" An ado about nothing"

(Thanks to W. Shakespeare)

What a fuss, I thought, pursing my lips and frowning. Honestly, don't people have more important things to think about than to start complaining over such a trivial occurance?

 I may have believed that painting the house pink was a good idea. I had done it in a spur of the moment decision. The paint at B&Qs was reduced. The store was closing down and although most of the goods on the shelves were to be carted off up the road to the hyperstore on the outskirts of town, the tins of pink paint were reduced to 50p a tin.

How could I resist such a bargain? Always known as a cherry picker in the local charity shops and jumble sales, this offer was too good to walk away from.

So I didn't!

Ian helped me to prepare the walls by sanding down the brickwork with an electric drill attachment. A good lad, he's always ready to help, if not exactly the brightest star in the bunch. But he is kindly. And as I get older, it's kindness that becomes more and more important to me. 

It only took us two days to finish the job. And very good it looked, if I say so myself. 

Yes, yes,  we missed the mark a few times and Ian painted over the keyhole in the front door. Oh yes and I'll have to take a sharp blade and try to remove the rim of paint on the glass windows. Yes, yes, some things like that. But when I stand on the other side of the street and look across at what we've done I'm jolly pleased.

So, what on earth is all this fuss about? It's not as if this is the grandest of streets. Not the "right" side of town. And most of the other houses are boring. Yes that's right, boring! Nothing adventurous in any of them. 

Nothing to catch the eye, or make me smile as I walk home in an evening from the local Tesco, my shopping bags full of the day's bargains. You have to time that exactly. Too early...nothing. Too late...the dregs! I'm a cherry picker there as well. It makes for exciting meals as I never know what has been reduced 'til I get there.

Anyway, look out, here they come.  Those neighbours, with their lace curtains, acceptably painted front doors and pots of boring plants placed neatly in front. Here they come knocking on my pink  door. Bright pink I mean .

" Well", I ask, " what do you want?"..... as I smile at them and think...

What an ado about nothing!

Story of Ballyferris Mr. M's Car.

...and so the story goes...

Chapter Two

Mr Megaw's Car

Mr. M was our next door neighbour. He lived with Mrs. M and their daughter Margaret. I didn’t know for a long time that she was called Margaret as everyone knew her as Miss Peggy. In my “singy” moments I used to hum, "If her eyes are blue as skies that’s Peggy M.......". Of course any Irish person worth their salt will know that it should be “Peggy O’Neill”, but mere facts like that have never stopped me changing things to suit the occasion. Perhaps another reason to doubt my story, but that would be a shame as you would miss out on the whole magic of what I am telling you. Mr. M’s car was like something out of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It was large and square cut with massive running boards, shining silver headlights and a wonderfully loud claxon horn. Now although the Ms were exceedingly posh for St. J’s,  they were also very kind. So the five Macs got to drive to the caravan in this amazing car for the first few years that we holidayed in it. The caravan ,of course, had already been hauled there for us by other means, and thus it was that we were on the way to our first great Ballyferris adventure.

Mega preparations had to be made before setting off. There was always a cooked chicken in a tin pan with a bobbley lid , you know the kind that I mean. All weathers were provided for, though I could never understand why, as I shed shoes and all heavy garments as soon as we arrived at the caravan field. There were always two questions asked as dad started up the old car. “Mary , have you got the kitchen sink? And “Mary , have you packed the grandfather clock?” The reply was always “Of course, Douglas.” And off we would go. Two children and a baby setting out on an adventure with mum, and dad at the wheel sounding the claxon horn at every impossible situation, while the eight year old screamed with delight.