The bag appeared to hold the key to her excitement and, sure enough, soon her mitts were inside. Her body tipped forward, the faded workplace identity card swinging from her neck nudging against the bag, so she could sneak a glance at her prize as it was retrieved. A smile spread across her face as she leant back; there it was: the complete series nine of Murder, She Wrote.
After carefully removing a strip of sticky tape (and folding it perfectly in half) her chubby fingers began clawing at the plastic wrap. As they did, her face became a study in concentration: jaw working overtime like a champion gurner OD’ing on MDMA crystal, tongue lapping at her lips like a dog anticipating Sunday dinner leftovers.
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As it does, Bruce spies a particularly colourful inhabitant lurching hurriedly down the pavement, eyes darting maniacally, cheeks sunken like he’s permanently sucking on lemons, clothes flaunting their stains on the wind, trainers begging to be allowed to rest in peace. All of which is fine. It’s the blue plastic bag / aerosol combo in his hand that’s of most concern.
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“Everything becomes old school one day,” comes the disdainful – and searingly accurate – reply.
No.1 crumples visibly: shot down dead in his tracks. And by a great piece of unwitting wisdom. Fran always tells Bruce: “Never underestimate children.” To his left stands living, breathing evidence of her words.
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