The Seagulls Song

A young woman discovers she has breast cancer and tells her friend and neighbour- her son is a promising young footballer and his father likes a pint or three. Get the hankies ready when reading this one.

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Tom put his hand inside the letterbox, catching hold of the long piece of string that held the door key. He struggled to place it into the lock and on his third go he found the recess. Turning the key he let himself in then fed the key back through the letterbox again. The key rattled off the wooden door as he closed it behind him.

“Where the hell have you been asked his wife Margaret angrily as Tom walked into the scullery?

Tom ignored the comment and asked where his dinner was.

“Dinner time was bloody hours ago you drunken slob, “Look at the state of you.

“Shut up man woman and giz me dinner.”

“It’s in the bloody oven where it has been since lunch time.”

“You would think you didn’t have a home to come back to; stopping out all day.

“Give a bloody rest will you; I’m getting a headache.”

I’ll give you more than a bloody headache you swine; “treating this house like a hotel you do.”

Tom staggered to his feet; he picked up a tea towel then opened the oven door.

He took hold of the plate that was very hot and hurriedly placed it onto the wooden table. He grabbed a knife and fork from draw and set about his dinner that had nearly dried up in the oven. The pork chops had gone hard the potatoes crispy and dark brown, the carrots and cauliflower roasted and the gravy was virtually none existent.

He didn’t complain as he chewed on the pork chop.

“Where is Georgie?

“He’s in bed so keep your noise down or you will wake him up. “ He’s got school in the morning.

“I have work but do you hear me complaining.”

“Georgie is a young boy; he needs his rest.”

Tom ate the second chop then tried a potato after swallowing it he pushed the dinner plate away then went into his coat pocket for his backy tin. He took out the Golden Virginia tobacco and the red packet of Rizzler Cigarette papers and rolled himself a cigarette.

“Giz a light will you love.”

“Don’t you love me Tom Johansson; don’t think you’re going to worm your way round me.

Looking around he saw a packet of Swan Vesta matches, he lit his cigarette then blew out the smoke in one long cloud.

I’m going to bed and don’t even think about sleeping in my bed tonight.”

“You can doss on the settee.”

 

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