by Avis Hickman-Gibb
Still waters, they allus says, run deep. Well that’s as maybe so I says – but what about the sewerage? Who looks after that, I asks you? And how do they gets the clean water separated from the used stuff? The colour’s all right when it comes from the tap – I’ll give you that. But they say by the time it gets to Lunnon it’s been through half a dozen sets of kidneys before it ends up with milk and two sugars in it, ready for my ginger-nut dunking.
Now that gives you pause for thought, dunnit? Nasty – thinking you’ve made your tea with someone’s pee – know what I mean? Enough to give me a turn, so it is. That’s the trouble with the whole ruddy planet – too many people using too little stuff. Not like when I was a girl. We had room to breathe – room to move then.
I dunno what it’s coming to – it’ll all end in tears, you mark my words. What with wars and bombs and solider boys coming home dead, being driven past silent faces; going home one final time. It’s all arse about tit if you ask me; which nobody does anymore – not a soul. Nobody even comes to visit.
I suppose they don’t want tea made from pee, either.
Avis Hickman-Gibb lives in Suffolk, England with her husband, one son and two cats. She’s working on a book of short stories and a novel but is addicted to writing flash fiction.
The Pygmy Giant 