If it wasn’t for the ink stain on her lapel, she would have survived a week longer.

It was a cold night. Not as cold as the night before.

In fact, it was kind of humid. Even muggy one might say; if one was wearing a coat.

Which I was not.

I was walking through the hills to clear my head, and to get some sun in the shade. You see it had been a long morning, one that started with all the enthusiasm of a butterfly on heroin and ended like a soggy post-coital mess on a bed of nails.

I have only ever been in love twice in my life, once with a Subbuteo Accessories-Official Referees Set and once with a lady.

Available only in Derry/Londonderry/Lisbonderry (includes circle)


Mary-May_Bridget King was a  woman.

She was the kind of woman who could steal a man’s heart with a smile and steal a man’s sanity with one just the same if she was so inclined. Which she was not.

She was from Kildare.

I never held this against her.

Well, maybe only a dozen times or so.

That lunchtime we had been watching the radio for news of the upcoming local elections in which her uncle was running to be president. We ate some vegetables while staring at the contraption and talked about the things we had in common. Which it happened was only three…

  1. Bird watching
  2. People watching
  3. Pokemon
  4. and horse riding in the forests of Bavaria.

We were discussing how the blue-tited Ms. Bulbasaur was seen drinking a can of Bavaria beer while walking her youngest child; Mudkip to school on horseback when  Mary-May_Bridget King suddenly proclaimed that she no longer loved me and that all was lost between us.

This came as a shock, as I had just bought us enough mincemeat to make a  shepherds pie for two

Steve Staunton

We tried to talk about her feelings but being a man all I heard was white noise and a faint ringing that could have been a bell or possibly the start of tinnitus.

She cried.

I laughed.

We both laughed.

I yawned.

I snoozed.

I woke up and made breakfast.

It was an omelet. I made it on the pan as I did not want to give my omelet maker a big head. I had trouble with the toaster before.

Now an omelet maker is quite like a woman…

Incubating eggs and made of stainless steel. But it does not have a heart.

Which some women do.

But this is not a story of egg makers. Indeed it is not a story of any household appliance. It is a tale of love lost, and gained and condensed into steam.

She once told me that she would gladly die for me. I found this difficult as I would not give up my Sunday’s for her.

I did, however, promise to love and protect her from the hooded claw. Keep the vampires from her door and put out the bins.

It was agreed later in court that it was manslaughter and not murder.




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