“Keep the noise down, I’m writing,” John declared imperiously positioning his gold-tipped Parker.
‘Va Pensiero’ was playing on Classic FM. ‘Hebrew Slaves.’ How appropriate, Cheryl thought, hanging the washing on the line.
She breathed in the outdoors. Citrus fragrance from mock orange mixed with the heady smell of honeysuckle. The sound of sparrows squabbling, inharmonious with the soft tinkling of wind chimes.
Perhaps ‘Surviving His Retirement’ for my own competition entry? Cheryl mused, plugging the hoover in.
“Can’t you do that later?” came a querulous voice. “A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss.”
Cheryl scribbled furiously: ‘How to murder your husband.’