I’ve never really liked Mrs Fortescue-Jones, but right now her swollen lips and missing front teeth evoke an overwhelming empathic response from me.
“Boomers…” the gatecrashers had shouted, hotly followed by “brexiteers…, housing-hoggers…, pension-bandits…, bed blockers…”
We, the remaining members of the WI, had been chained to the ancient church-hall radiator, which was ticking and clanking away as usual.
Mrs F-J, however, is made of sterner stuff.
“Snowflakes,” she’d hissed before making a break for the phone to alert Septaguarian Security Services.
Mrs F-J always did like the last word.
And that, sadly, might just well be it.
The inspiration for this bit of nonsense came from one of my favourite Margaret Atwood short stories called ‘Torching the Dusties’. The WI, for those who are unfamiliar with it, stands for Women’s Institute. For cultural and demographic reasons there will still be many Friday Fictioneers for whom the story will have little significance – sorry about that. 🙂 Thanks to Rochelle once again.