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Mr. Bean

He was always at the dogs her old man. Wide head like a kidney bean. Unsoaked, hard and shiney. He drank Scotch and milk. And smoked cigarillos. He had a gold tooth. The only break in the purpleness of his face. It was Thursday. He was drinking alone, punting his wages away down the dogs again.

We went for a walk on Blackheath. Sat with her in the snug at the pub we found together. She had a map with her. She needed it. She was always getting lost. Not being a South Londoner. I was her fancy feller. Her slap & tickler. Her Thursday night man. She was my once a week bit on the side. Can't really say when it got more serious. When her old man caught us at it, I suppose. He'd got back from the dogs early that night. Done all his dough in by half eight. It was freezin' and rainin' and so we'd slipped into her parlour for a warm and a cuddle before going down the boozer for a couple of brown & bitters. But we didn't make it; we dozed off in front of the fire. I'd been working lates.

He came home early. His face had never been more purple.

Story by:

Phil Doran

magicphil@btinternet.com

submitted at 9:02pm

9 May 2009

Phil Doran's web:

http://thespaghettifaction.blogspot.com