It really wasn’t May’s day. Her run of bad luck had started in the morning when she’d left Rodger’s breakfast cooking unattended, to answer the telephone, and ended up burning the lot. The worst thing was that it was one of those pesky double glazing sales calls. She kept trying to butt in and tell the loud lady on the other end the house was council rented but it was no use, the loud lady had a ready prepared script and by god, she was going to read it.
Rodger was cross (just lately, Rodger was eternally cross). He snapped at her, the usual barbs fired across the lemon yellow kitchen, she couldn’t be trusted, she was a waste of space, a useless cook, did she really expect him to eat this rubbish? He threw her favourite cup, the one with the cheerful spring daffodils, it smashed against the wall. Her bottom lip trembled as she felt the force of the slammed door and heard the crunch of gravel as the car sped off. A few tears leaked from her eyes as she set to cleaning up the mess.
May grabbed her handbag and left for town, an afternoon of coffee and cake with her oldest and dearest friend, Pauline. Her steps quickened as she spotted the 97 coming around the corner. She wasn’t quite at the stop when it flew by. The driver saw her but he was having a bad day too so, spitefully left her lonely and sorrowful and twenty minutes late.
Pauline wasn’t too chuffed, she had to be at the hairdressers in forty minutes for her monthly cut and blow-dry. What kind of gossip could they have in forty bloody minutes, she’d sniffed. Typically, Pauline chattered non-stop about herself, her children, how clever they are, never thinking to stop and ask how May’s day was going. May didn’t mind though, she never complained, she wasn’t that sort.
She felt a little lost when they parted ways and couldn’t think of how to spend the rest of the snatched afternoon. So she just went home. The return bus ride wasn’t much fun; it was full of school kids, their chewing gum and their obnoxious strings of expletives. She felt exhausted by the time she reached the end of her road.
Rodger’s car was in the drive which it had no place to be at 3.45pm. She hoped he had calmed down and that they could try and have a nice evening. She’d do him his favourite, egg and chips, and she wouldn’t burn a thing. She’d even do fried bread and maybe even a nice crumble for after? He’d like that.
But Rodger was busy entertaining his fluffy secretary, Miss. Nancy Watkins. Miss. Nancy Watkins grasped the kitchen worktop and Rodger had his crumpled work trousers around his ankles, and was reaching a happy conclusion.
It really wasn’t May’s day.