“Jack Frost’s at the window,” my grandmother would say, and when the ice melted and snowflakes kissed the windowpanes, she’d smile.
“The angels are shaking their mattresses.”
On sultry summer days I’d laze outside, sucking clover-heads for honey, or crushing rose petals to make perfumes, and when towering thunderheads obscured the sun, she’d usher me indoors.
“God’s moving his wardrobes,” she’d say.
So when I found her weeping over her shattered moneybox, I expect to hear about “wicked magpies” or “naughty elves”.
“Your bloody father… thieving bastard,” she snarled.
And like my perfumes, something of my childhood soured and decayed.
I’ve written a new one for this re-tread, as I wasn’t overly enthused about my last offering three and a half years ago. Thanks to Rochelle for keeping the Friday Fictioneers ship afloat as she tries to meet her publishing deadline, whilst some of us take a break. My internet problems are not fully resolved, and I’m beginning to understand that perhaps rural areas take a back seat so far as BT are concerned. Pity that isn’t reflected in their prices, though I have been assured that there will be ‘compensation discussions’.