Depending on the
direction
of the wind,
usually a north-westerly,
a sickly-sweet aroma
of Weetabix would hang
on the breeze,
dense and catching in
my throat.
Never a favourite of
mine
even less so
when our neighbour’s
daughter
sporting a year-round
candle,
dripping from her nose
succeeded in getting a
job there,
putting me off for
life.
Ironically, her father,
later in life
was hit by a bus
tumbling over whilst
recklessly
plucking cigarette
dog-ends
from the gutter
near the bus shelter.
As children we would
watch him
unfailingly press Button
B
each time he passed
the phone box
in the hope that some
hasty
distracted user had
left
four pennies
unrecovered.
My sister sliced between
two fingers
of my right hand
instead of the cottage
loaf
she was holding,
I, first to the knife
unwisely picking it up
by the blade.
With me bleeding profusely
we rushed next door
for help,
our neighbour promptly
fainted
at the sight of my
near dismembered finger.
I cannot look at a
packet of Weetabix today
without seeing his
daughter’s snotty kisser
and his own crumpled
body
slumped against the
bus shelter
near our garden gate,
no blood.
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