Chilled produce

“And what about Tommy?”, arch brows Bernadette, ever so slightly.

“Studying away. Loves it, he does”, fake smiles Sheila.

Sheila doesn’t realise Tommy hasn’t a “fucking notion” (sic) of setting foot in the real world for another two bank loans, and little does she know, but fears, that all her acquaintances’ children are destined to receive post-grads before him with a post-grad becoming the new under-grad. She draws breath as she spots Mary from the flower-arranging class in the distance before pulling a three-and-a-half point turn. Those damn trolleys.

Throwing a few boxes of almond slices (Tommy’s favourite) in the basket, she swiftly takes the chicane into the tinfoil aisle and prays she’s avoided another session of Mary banging on about her Nuala and her wretched PhD. Holy Mary and Joseph I’ll throttle her if she mentions it ONE MORE TIME.

Dangerous cul-de-sac

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