The Adams are next.

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.