In the last post: Bert needed consoling: strutting cockerels are not interested in old hens like Olive, they prefer the young chicks...
Dear friends, if you like a good chuckle, dim-witted heroes, and larger-than-life villains, then you'll love this fascinating series. On Tuesdays and Saturdays, I’m blogging nibble-sized chunks of new ‘Life in the Clouds’ stories. You can check in regularly and read them free, or wait to buy the complete story when published.
Enchanter on the Roof ® James Field. Part 05
Bert looked down at Morris, born leader and gardener, whose head hardly reached to Bert’s chest. “Thanks, mate. You always know how to say the right things. Come to think of it, you don’t look so good yourself.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.” Morris kicked a stone and pressed his hands deeper into his pockets. “I thought my turnips would win the prize for biggest example this year, but they didn’t. It’s enough to make me want to hang myself.”
“Yeah, me too." Bert hesitated before saying more. Morris wasn't the type to hang himself, and he'd miss him if he did. Best not to encourage him. Better to make him happier by giving a compliment. "You really cheered me up by saying Olive is a scraggy old hen that nobody wants—except me. Ain’t that right, Alf?”
Alf, his best friend and colleague, shrugged and spat. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Bert. I’ve known Olive longer than you and she’s always been a floozy.”
Not wanting to hear more, Bert slouched away. He squeezed between the dancing throng of ecstatic girls and tapped on Olive’s shoulder. “Cooee! It’s only me. Can I have a few words?”
“Not now, Pet,” she said, never taking her eyes from Dick Charmer. “I’m busy. Maybe later.”
Busy? Yeah, Bert knew she was busy all right: she'd pasted on make-up, fixed her hair, and drowned herself in pong; all for the sake of that showoff stud on the roof. Bert opened his mouth, but no sounds formed. Instead, he shook his head and plodded off home.
To be continued…
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Best Kept Secret by Jeffrey Archer
My rating: 1 of 5 stars
Did Not Finish.
This is book three in a series of seven. The principal plotline in the first two books is: who is Harry Clifton’s father? Is he a wealthy, titled upper-class aristocrat, or a low-class dock worker bum? By book three, because it’s the best-kept secret, we still don’t know. And as Harry doesn’t care, one way or the other, neither do I.
Apart from that, the storyline has developed into a soap opera, with plot elements dragging on the same as the same as the same...
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