There was once a man who worked at the post office whose job it was to return letters that were addressed incorrectly. One day he found a letter on his desk that just had "To God" written on the front of the envelope in shaky handwriting. Intrigued, he opened the letter, and it read thus:
"Dear God,
My name is Edna, I am 83 years old. Every year I save up £100 and use it to have a Christmas party for all my friends. But today somebody stole my purse with my £100 in it. It is only 5 days until Christmas and all of our plans have been spoiled. I have never asked for anything from you before but I wondered if this time you could possibly help me?
Yours faithfully,
Edna.
Well the man felt sorry for Edna and passed the letter around to his colleagues. After reading it they decided to have a whip round, and managed to collect £96, which they quickly sent back to Edna's address on the top of the letter, feeling very charitable at this festive time.
Well Christmas came and went, and a few days later another letter appeared on the desk, in the same shaky handwriting, addressed "To God." All the people gathered around the desk excitedly, to see what the letter would reveal. It said:
"Dear God,
Hello this is Edna. I cannot thank you enough for the money you sent to me! Because of your divine intervention we all had a wonderful Christmas, and my friends and I enjoyed ourselves very much. I knew I could have faith in you!
By the way, there seemed to be £4 missing from the envelope. I bet it was those bastards at the post office.
Yours faithfully,
Edna."
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Friday, 10 July 2009
Friday, 14 November 2008
Lazy Sunday
Late Sunday afternoon, and Joanne was the happiest she had been for days. Her five-year-old tugged at her arm impatiently. She found her money, turned away from the trailer, looked down, and - she couldn't believe it - her son had disappeared. She stood there bemused with his favourite ice-cream in her hand, and gazed up and down the towpath of the canal - but no sign of Robbie. She had only been distracted for a few seconds.
The families strolling along by the water's edge on this oppressively hot day obscured her view, and the cloudless sky shot sunrays off the glittering canal, blinding her eyes. She fumbled for her sunglasses as the ice-cream dripped over her fingers. I could see her as she threw it to the floor in frustration and anger.
Urgently, she assessed the situation. Surely, she thought, he wouldn't have crossed the narrow lock gates to the other side? She looked across to where the far bank was even busier. The old stone pub, The Fox, was teeming with people. The gates were parting now, and the white water rushed and hissed between them. She looked up to heaven. Out of the blue, the words of her husband came back to her. He had told her never to let the boy out of her sight. He always seemed to have an accusing tone in his voice nowadays, as if she was always doing something wrong or, ironically, as if he didn't trust her.
How Joanne hated him. She would never for one moment had believed five years ago that she would now be filing for divorce. But that was before she had found out about the affair.
"Are you sure he's not cheating?" said her friend one day, when she had confided in her about the strange texts and his late nights home. 'Cheating' was a word she really disliked. You can cheat at dominoes, she thought, or cheat the lights, or even cheat off early from work, and the antidote to cheating, if caught, is merely the word 'sorry', and everything is ok. So when did going behind your wife's back, the one you supposedly love, supposedly honour, become 'cheating? Was a six-month affair - and god knows, it could have been longer, if he can lie once then his confession could be a lie - just 'cheating', in the same way as having an ace up your sleeve?
In tabloid-speak, then certainly it was, but not for her in her personal definition. So what sort of man was her husband? In the annotation of today - a cheat, noun. - a chiseler, a cozener, a decoy. a fake, a jockey, a shark. a sharper, a shyster, a swindler, to name but few terms. Why so many terms for such a bad person? Is that a comment on our age? Would there be as many entries for 'saint?' She didn't think so.
So she would keep herself awake and then check his phone in the middle of the night until the evidence was clear. She had found the message that proved everything. And now she intended to take him for everything she could. After all, she was doing this for Robbie's sake. She couldn't stay with the man now and she certainly wasn't going to let the boy be deprived because of his actions. And he'd had the audacity to accuse her of the same thing!
"You can get whatever lawyer you like", he had yelled, "but you won't get anything from me. I know you've been seeing that ex-boyfriend of yours. I'm not an idiot." But this was ludicrous. The guy was her friend, of course she saw him occasionally. Only socially, he was in her circle of friends she had known since law school.
"What's more, I can prove it", he said bitterly. She had called him paranoid. His fist hung above her and pushed him away so violently he had fallen and hit the back of his head on the coffee table. That was some satisfaction, but he would probably try to use this in court against her.
"So he was cheating?" her friend had said, well-meaningly, of course, but she had felt like knocking her out as well at the time. Now her nuclear family was becoming her unclear destiny. Her imperfect future, tense. She didn't know what direction it would take.
She gazed up and downstream again, thinking, 'where could he be?' I watched her do this from the other side of the lock. I could see Joanne clearly as I sat anonymously among the drinkers outside the Fox. The shade of the marquee was a welcome respite from the heat, and I was sure she couldn't see me.
I watched as she ran towards a group standing by a brightly painted barge. She saw, ahead of her, two policemen in their yellow waistcoats peering down between two boats. One of them was saying something into his crackling radio while the other looked on sternly. A cloth-capped old boy was gesticulating at them from one of the decks. I watched as she got to them, gasping for air. I could even see her relief as she realised the commotion was merely the argument about the lack of some permit or other. Then I noticed Robbie.
He was running along this side of the bridge, not far from where I was. There was another boy with him, of about the same age, maybe older, who seemed to be encouraging him to go somewhere. Robbie stopped, but his companion was pointing and showing him the way to something in the distance, that he was excitedly trying to show him. I could just about hear him saying "Come on, don't be scared" and the two of them skipped off, out of my line of sight.
"I don't think anyone lives here, but my brother says differently", the older boy said. They were standing by an old cabin cruiser that looked quite disused. The faded red and gold paintwork was flakey and the curtains looked grey, the old wooden doors of the cabin were bolted. "Go on, jump it. You first" he said to Robbie. Robbie noticed a coot's nest on the far side. The boat rocked in the water's wake, and tugged at the towrope, the gap of dirty water between wall and boatside shortening and widening.
Suddenly, he jumped, and stumbled across the damp boards. At this, his companion abandoned him and ran off. Robbie picked himself up, and peeped between the curtains into the dark cabin. Then he tried the wooden doors, which gave a little. Broadside, it seemed, something moved beyond the dark curtains. Or was it the light? He wasn't sure. He pulled at the doors again and the rusty bolt gave way. "Look at this" he said over his shoulder, but then realised that he was alone. He hesitated for a moment or two, then started to climb down the steps to the cabin below.
I just caught site of him before he descended. Jumping onto the deck, I shouted "Come here!" I grabbed the boy by the arm, who gave a start and looked up, shocked. The boat banged dangerously against the side wall as he struggled to get free.
I hadn't intended to startle the kid so much. "It's alright" I said, "but you shouldn't be here. This way."
I dragged him over to the bridge. "Hey! Is this your lad?" I called, and Joanne raced across to meet him.
"I thought he looked lost" I said as she bent down to hug him, and I hastily left. It was ok, I reasoned, my cover hadn't been blown. She would never know my identity. I had been hired by her husband, I specialise in procuring evidence in divorce cases, and her husband was paying me well. I was often less than proud of what I do, but today, for once, I had given someone a good turn.
The families strolling along by the water's edge on this oppressively hot day obscured her view, and the cloudless sky shot sunrays off the glittering canal, blinding her eyes. She fumbled for her sunglasses as the ice-cream dripped over her fingers. I could see her as she threw it to the floor in frustration and anger.
Urgently, she assessed the situation. Surely, she thought, he wouldn't have crossed the narrow lock gates to the other side? She looked across to where the far bank was even busier. The old stone pub, The Fox, was teeming with people. The gates were parting now, and the white water rushed and hissed between them. She looked up to heaven. Out of the blue, the words of her husband came back to her. He had told her never to let the boy out of her sight. He always seemed to have an accusing tone in his voice nowadays, as if she was always doing something wrong or, ironically, as if he didn't trust her.
How Joanne hated him. She would never for one moment had believed five years ago that she would now be filing for divorce. But that was before she had found out about the affair.
"Are you sure he's not cheating?" said her friend one day, when she had confided in her about the strange texts and his late nights home. 'Cheating' was a word she really disliked. You can cheat at dominoes, she thought, or cheat the lights, or even cheat off early from work, and the antidote to cheating, if caught, is merely the word 'sorry', and everything is ok. So when did going behind your wife's back, the one you supposedly love, supposedly honour, become 'cheating? Was a six-month affair - and god knows, it could have been longer, if he can lie once then his confession could be a lie - just 'cheating', in the same way as having an ace up your sleeve?
In tabloid-speak, then certainly it was, but not for her in her personal definition. So what sort of man was her husband? In the annotation of today - a cheat, noun. - a chiseler, a cozener, a decoy. a fake, a jockey, a shark. a sharper, a shyster, a swindler, to name but few terms. Why so many terms for such a bad person? Is that a comment on our age? Would there be as many entries for 'saint?' She didn't think so.
So she would keep herself awake and then check his phone in the middle of the night until the evidence was clear. She had found the message that proved everything. And now she intended to take him for everything she could. After all, she was doing this for Robbie's sake. She couldn't stay with the man now and she certainly wasn't going to let the boy be deprived because of his actions. And he'd had the audacity to accuse her of the same thing!
"You can get whatever lawyer you like", he had yelled, "but you won't get anything from me. I know you've been seeing that ex-boyfriend of yours. I'm not an idiot." But this was ludicrous. The guy was her friend, of course she saw him occasionally. Only socially, he was in her circle of friends she had known since law school.
"What's more, I can prove it", he said bitterly. She had called him paranoid. His fist hung above her and pushed him away so violently he had fallen and hit the back of his head on the coffee table. That was some satisfaction, but he would probably try to use this in court against her.
"So he was cheating?" her friend had said, well-meaningly, of course, but she had felt like knocking her out as well at the time. Now her nuclear family was becoming her unclear destiny. Her imperfect future, tense. She didn't know what direction it would take.
She gazed up and downstream again, thinking, 'where could he be?' I watched her do this from the other side of the lock. I could see Joanne clearly as I sat anonymously among the drinkers outside the Fox. The shade of the marquee was a welcome respite from the heat, and I was sure she couldn't see me.
I watched as she ran towards a group standing by a brightly painted barge. She saw, ahead of her, two policemen in their yellow waistcoats peering down between two boats. One of them was saying something into his crackling radio while the other looked on sternly. A cloth-capped old boy was gesticulating at them from one of the decks. I watched as she got to them, gasping for air. I could even see her relief as she realised the commotion was merely the argument about the lack of some permit or other. Then I noticed Robbie.
He was running along this side of the bridge, not far from where I was. There was another boy with him, of about the same age, maybe older, who seemed to be encouraging him to go somewhere. Robbie stopped, but his companion was pointing and showing him the way to something in the distance, that he was excitedly trying to show him. I could just about hear him saying "Come on, don't be scared" and the two of them skipped off, out of my line of sight.
"I don't think anyone lives here, but my brother says differently", the older boy said. They were standing by an old cabin cruiser that looked quite disused. The faded red and gold paintwork was flakey and the curtains looked grey, the old wooden doors of the cabin were bolted. "Go on, jump it. You first" he said to Robbie. Robbie noticed a coot's nest on the far side. The boat rocked in the water's wake, and tugged at the towrope, the gap of dirty water between wall and boatside shortening and widening.
Suddenly, he jumped, and stumbled across the damp boards. At this, his companion abandoned him and ran off. Robbie picked himself up, and peeped between the curtains into the dark cabin. Then he tried the wooden doors, which gave a little. Broadside, it seemed, something moved beyond the dark curtains. Or was it the light? He wasn't sure. He pulled at the doors again and the rusty bolt gave way. "Look at this" he said over his shoulder, but then realised that he was alone. He hesitated for a moment or two, then started to climb down the steps to the cabin below.
I just caught site of him before he descended. Jumping onto the deck, I shouted "Come here!" I grabbed the boy by the arm, who gave a start and looked up, shocked. The boat banged dangerously against the side wall as he struggled to get free.
I hadn't intended to startle the kid so much. "It's alright" I said, "but you shouldn't be here. This way."
I dragged him over to the bridge. "Hey! Is this your lad?" I called, and Joanne raced across to meet him.
"I thought he looked lost" I said as she bent down to hug him, and I hastily left. It was ok, I reasoned, my cover hadn't been blown. She would never know my identity. I had been hired by her husband, I specialise in procuring evidence in divorce cases, and her husband was paying me well. I was often less than proud of what I do, but today, for once, I had given someone a good turn.
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