93 Men in a Boat (13) : The Merry Widow

“Hello,” she opens. “Mind if I join you?” and without waiting for a response she plunks herself into the empty chair…

“Bugger!” I think. “How many times have I told myself never to sit at a table with an odd number of chairs?”

“My name’s Jane” she goes on. “My husband died of cancer last year after a long illness.”

Well, really that’s a bit of a conversation stopper really, isn’t it. I mean, what do you say in response to that? “Well, shit happens” I reply, smiling sweetly. Mrs D glowers at me and kicks me under the table as she looks for a convenient hole to open up in the dining room floor and devour her…

But the widow is nonplussed, not really taking in the unexpected response as she is not actually listening anyway. She prefers talking as this ensures that she remains the centre of attention.

“Yes,” she says, going on to explain that her father also died last year and that her brother has terminal heart disease. I am somewhat taken aback and can only conclude that this is her response to my rather unexpected rejoinder. But no. She is being serious.

But all is not lost. The woman across the other side of the table who it transpires has brought her bit of stuff with her leans across and says “My husband died last year as well.”

“FFS!” I think wondering what sort of rotten bastard I must have been in a previous life to get myself trapped in such a deadly pincer movement.

“What luck,” I interject. “At least you will to talk about” and I hastily make my excuses and fuck off to the toilet to pass comment…


One response to “93 Men in a Boat (13) : The Merry Widow

  1. Well, shit happens…
    Actually Dioclese I think that is simply a rather accurate observation. Please pass on my censure to your missus that kicking shins for such an straight forward and honest observation is OTT.

    My missus has given up on shins.

    Now when wearing stillettos she forces the heel into my foot until I shut the fuck up.

    Being impaled through the foot through is a truly religious experience.

    Last year while minding our own business and having a coffee at a nice local street cafe we were accosted by a Greenpeace activist
    seeking signatures for some lunacy or the other.

    Within a very short period of time I knew axactly how Christ felt when they were hammering the nails in. But the silly girl would not go away however much I pointed out the stupidity of her petition.

    Eventually I was left with no other option than to howl out in pain.

    That though did the trick. She fled in terror.