Wednesdays were the worst.
At least on Thursdays the bullies were tired and on Fridays distracted. But on Wednesdays they were at the top of their game. They had had two days to recover from the weekend’s grogginess and perfect their dark arts. And now, like a gang of street cats, they would wait for him. Tease, torment, and torture. The mornings weren’t complete until they had produced at least one tear or received a minimum of one packet of crisps as payment for “protection.”
Wednesdays were the worst.
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The whole village was abuzz with excitement. Rumours had been circulating all week about when the announcement would be made, and now, finally, it seemed to have arrived. April May was there wrapped in her finest shawl, Mr and Mrs Doodleberry were stood waiting patiently, and even Old Man Winters had left the safety of his beloved garden shed to see what the commotion was about.
The mood was reaching fever pitch as the biggest names in Lower Winderton gathered outside of Miss Lavender’s Post Office. Eventually, Miss Lavender emerged from her shop and stepped out into the warm July morning. A hush fell over the crowd. The number 47 bus rolled into its stop, the driver turning off the engine and sticking his head out of the window for a better view. Across the road, Boris the daschund yapped eagerly.
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A collection of ramblings, thoughts, blogs, and general nonsense which you may or may not find to be a complete waste of your time on this precious planet.
Trouble & Squeak 