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Arthur Grimestead

Arthur Grimestead


Mother-in law’s Tongue.

 

She was speaking.

I imagined the elongated prongs of a roasting fork.

‘To Beth – daughter, mother, principle earner – your promotion is so well deserved.’ She held a wine glass like Robert the Bruce waggling his sword at the English.

Three months, each morning, I’ve headed to the library for seven hours’ monotony – so you, cunt-in-law-next-door, can twitch the curtain and think I’m still employed. Beth says it’s just easier. Well, where’s my congratulations?

I cleared my throat. ‘Hear, hear. I’m proud of you, Beth.’

Glasses tinkled, and as the compliments settled, the cunt-in-law piped up: ‘So, Mark, how’s work?’

 

 

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