James McEwan Leggate
sparkling water
Mary
stopped wiping at the kitchen sink and instead she gazed out of the window at
the dull dark clouds. Rain was certainly on the way, and everything seemed so
miserable as if her world had a screw loose. Oh dear, she wasn’t sure how to fix
it.
The fridge motor switched on and
interrupted her day dreaming, its humming sound took on a rhythmic beating of da
daa . . . dum dum. She imagined herself in a Viennese Waltz cavorting with a
tall Austrian Hussar, and so she turned and twirled across the floor.
The vacuum cleaner in the corner
perked up. “May I have the pleasure?” it said.
“Delighted,” said Mary and
curtsied. She took the vacuum by the handle, and they swept around the kitchen
dancing to the music.
The sound of the fridge rumbled on
as rain washed against the window playing like soft violins, the slow-cooker
gurgled in delight and the kettle whistled as a fluttering flute. The washing
machine shuddered out a bass of beating drums and the Dolce Gusto joined in with
a whoosh, whoosh, sending aromatic plumes of percolating coffee into the air.
Mary skipped and spun, swinging on
the arm of her handsome Mr Vacuum as they whirled around her tiny ballroom. From
the clock, a cuckoo sprang out and trumpeted its hunting horn, and the timer on
the oven played along with an allegro bleeping in consonance with the kitchen
orchestra.
The house front door slammed.
The music stopped.
Mary dropped the hoover into the
cupboard under the stairs, it groaned its disapproval. She rushed into the
hall.
“I am shattered,” her husband said,
“I’m completely worn out.” He gave her a gentle peck on the cheek and slouched
into the living room where he slumped onto the sofa.
‘Did I hear our white goods
singing?”
“No,” said Mary shaking her head,
“besides that’s racist.”
“What!” he
said.
“They are not white goods.” Mary
undid his jacket.
“I’m too run down to argue.” He
kicked off his shoes and laid back.
“We refer to them as appliances
these days,” she said and reached into his trousers’ pocket for the long
flexi-cord which she plugged into a battery recharging pack and switched it
on.
“Ah . . . that’s better,” he said
and closed his eyes.
Mary returned to the kitchen and
made a call on her mobile.
A loud voice answered. “Mr Wong’s
Magical Electrical Emporium, what can I do for you?”
“Mr Wong, it’s
Mary.”
All the appliances in the kitchen
gave a short gasp, the Dolce Gusto hissed, the vacuum cleaner peeked out from
the cupboard.
“Yes Mary, you need a
replacement.”
“Sort of Mr Wong, do you have any
hussars?”
All the appliances burst out a
short expressive sigh, they were safe, she wasn’t disposing of
them.
“You need a new man . . . why not
repair the one you have?”
“Mr Wong, my husband is clapped
out, worn out and completely flat.”
“We can fit a new
battery.”
“It’s no use, he has lost all his
energy. I need one with spark, style and stamina.”
“Okay, Mrs Mary I will bring a new
one tomorrow, anything else.”
“Yes, there is a small screw in my
head that rattles and seems to be very loose.”
“Oh dear,” said Mr Wong, “sounds
very bad, sounds like an emergency.”
“It is an emergency!” she said,
“Oh, it really is, Mr Wong.”
“I will come immediately,” Mr Wong
laughed. “I will bring new parts . . . again.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr Wong.” Mary
switch off her mobile and placed in on the table. Her smile increased towards a
grin. There was always something special about the way Mr Wong fiddled with her
parts. His gentle hands made her feel so invigorated, such that her whole world
no longer seemed so miserable.
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