500 words a day

561 words 18th July 2009

Cloudy with a chance of eyeballs- again! Drendrog was sick of it. It was supposed to be high sep-season and all they’d had was clouds and eyeballs with the occasional toenail shower for the last 3 weeks. Suppose it doesn’t mater, he thought, we’re lucky we don’t live in Haliburtonsvile, apparently, according to the woman with three noses, at the end of the circle street, they didn’t have nothing but farts falling down throughout the 6 month of the high season what ever they called it in that godforsaken stinky country. Last year Drend thought he was going to be sent there by the council.  After all he was supposed to be an ambassador and, so the missus said, how can you do any ambassadoring here at home, not much you can do here is there? He’d shushed her and told her to mind her own business and get back to the sky welding, spent far too much type chunnering on that no wonder there was a big old rent in the sky and the sun was burning everything that lived near the hole. Jersenville, that was burnt to a crisp and soon it will be coming their way, in a couple of months in fact all it needed was the sun to be at the highest point, like mid high season, basically, in three months and then they ‘d go the same way, up in smoke and no one need bother running what was the point. Of course they would but they didn’t ant to, beside, she needed to fix it before then and stop waffling on about him and his ambassadoring. He knew she was right though, and as soon as the high council court of the high and mighty of lordships and excellencies, or whatever the ruddy hell they called themselves stopped ‘tasting’ this seasons cider apple beer wine crop and started looking at what was going on around them – they’d been at it now for 2 and a half years and he wasn’t convinced they’d be able to come but when 3 years were up there’d be another election so something g would have t happen.





Anyway, maybe he’d stand for the council, why not, after al he’d been in his esteemed position of ambassador to the something or other, he always forgot the title but he knew it was important, everyone said so and he hardly had to buy any drinks at the tavern and he’d run up a massive bill at the farm shop and old Halfingsworthy hadn’t said a thing. Always greeted him and bowed whenever he came in the shop, bit sickening really but he didn’t mind getting everything for free.


You’ll have to pay eventually you know – the missus again poking her nose in and still not welding that arseaching sky. She would do this, always has a say , blast her lazy arse though, she was right and he didn’t even know how much he owed the old farmer. Next month he’d start settling, or at least find out how much and come to an arrangement, better do it before the election coz he might not be n a position to negotiate afterwards. Could be out on his arse and be forced into eyeball clearing again – bloody weather, lets hope its not like this when the elections over, just in case.











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Steve Wybourn





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