There goes Mick again. Silly old bugger. Thinks he’s Prince Charming or something, the way he carries on with the Murphy sisters over the road. Mind you, they’re as dopey as him, fluttering their silly old lashes and mincing about, pretending that they’re still young and pretty. Young and pretty. Bah! Had my pick of them in my youth. No good thinking about those days. Look at him. Shiny shoes and bloody arty- farty walking stick, with its twirly knob. Yes. I suppose I am jealous. He’s handing Daisy a rose. Saw him out in his garden this morning. Should have been watching the toast, it burned, serves me right. Time I got a new decent bloody toaster, the popup sort that don’t burn. He was singing to himself. Sings so loud the whole street can hear him. Needs a hearing aid, has a hearing aid, but he’s too bloody proud to use it. He was out there this morning watering his precious plants. Loves them like he loves that silly dog, old, blind and just as useless as him. I should talk. Useless, bah! We’re all bloody useless at our age.
Look at him. ‘Here you are m’dear.’ I can hear him across the street, can imagine what he’s saying anyway. I know him well enough, should know him well enough, lived together for long enough as kids and still practically in each other’s pockets. Where’s my cigarettes? I’m sure I put them in my pocket. These old trousers are like me, about ready for the rubbish heap. What’s this? A two cent coin? Bloody lot of use that is. Can’t even spend it these days, prices going up all the time. Might as well toss it in the bin. Just like that wallet of Micks. Falling apart it is. But the way he carried on, when he lost it last week, you’d think it was a Gucci model. Not that I’d know a Gucci model these days, Not like in my youth. Big spender I was then, the best of British suits and a lovely tweed coat. I was a very dapper chap back then. Bah! No use thinking about the past. That wallet of Micks, I found it lying on his front fence. Sprinklers had soaked it. Not much money inside, but that was wet too. Silly old bugger, he’s always forgetting things. Leaves his coffee mugs out there every second day. Even left the fancy teaspoon with the red dragon on it, the one he won for a writing competition at school. Almost in tears he was, over that one. I keep telling him not to take his good stuff outside. I think he must be trying to impress those Murphy women with his trinkets. They’re so blind too, they wouldn’t know what’s good and what isn’t, except I suppose his roses are pretty good. He used to win prizes for them, before he got too old and arthritic. It’s too bloody cold to bother with them in winter. Couple of old farts we are. Of course Mick’s the oldest. He’ll be eighty this year. Not doing too bad is he? Keeps his house nice, mows the lawns for both of us. God! Here he comes, bright and happy as a baby, my big brother. Coming to get lunch for both of us. God! I hate this bloody wheelchair.
Victoria Mizen