Sunday 12 May 2024

Sunday Serial, 280 x 70, Gill James, 16. Flowers on the table 21 November 2018, whisky nightcap,

 Nancy frowned there was something not quite right but she couldn't quite decide what. She was giving Great Aunt Miranda the room with the lovely view over the undulating hills towards the restless sea.  She'd remembered that Great Aunt Miranda preferred blankets and a bedspread to a duvet.

She hoped Clive would get on with great Aunt Miranda. Clive didn't even have ordinary aunts let alone great ones. He had no relations at all. He'd been bought up in a children's home. Quite the opposite from him great Aunt Miranda liked to go to bed early and get up early.       

She picked up one of the books she'd put by her aunt's bed. A harmless romance without any sex in it.  She'd checked everything so carefully. Not too much violence in the whodunits either.

Oh dear though, might the criticism be that it was all too tame? It was quite difficult getting the balance right.

At the edge of her mind she could hear her aunt's voice reciting a poem. Something about flowers in a basket and the key of the kingdom.

That was it. She just had enough time to arrange some flowers before her aunt arrived.


Great Aunt Miranda looked round the room frowning. "Those will have to go." She pointed at the flowers. They'll make me sneeze. "Hmm.  Same old, same old. You could have got me something a bit raunchier." She put down the book she'd been holding. "Next time, my love, get me one of those nice duvets. Blankets are for old people."

"Okay, Auntie, I hope you sleep well."

"I will if you don't wake me up at your usual stupid o'clock. Night-night, darling." 

About the author

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. 

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.




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