I’ve been handling divorces for fifteen years and I boy can I spot a couple in the throes of despair, smell them like a rat smells rotted peelings in the trash, sniff sniff and I’m there, card ready after I do the ‘bump.’
Six months ago in
Morrison’s I spotted the Adam’s, three of them, was four, now three. Snooped
around a bit and found the son had high-tailed it to the Borders. Ignored the
daughter, whiny, annoying so blocked her out. Mum and Dad, I search the eyes,
and the eyes were cold, dead, battered over the head, fish dead, dead skimmed
and deboned, ready for eating. Dead I tell you, dead.
Bump.
Hello,
I’m Tony, No 42 St. Mary’s close, their nodding donkeys back to me. Am I right
in believing your not far from me.
Indeed, No.14 Tooting
St. Nice area, remarks the husband. The pair nod like blanks in a gun. Their mine
all mine, I’ll handle this divorce. The wife’ll leave, they always do. Men
cheat, wife’s leave.
Me,
Oh I’m a Solicitor, handle all sorts. I says, divorces, oh I know it’s always a
shame, but they don’t need to be painful. Nah, i says as they lean in keen. Pride
myself in being gentle, smoothing things over, I’m the UN of understanding. But
I do other stuff as well, usual solicitor stuff, here’s my card, if ever you
need me, you know wills and stuff. Oh how the raced for it, he got it first,
but she’ll get her own back by calling early.
Got‘
um snared and rolled for the bagging.
