100 days: Day 30


Mr Grunball

‘He’s at it again,’ grumbled Mr Grunball between delicate nibbles of toast, ‘yeah, you laugh boy, you laugh. You wont be laughing when I… flipping… yeah, just you laugh.’

‘Is he laughing again, Clive?’ asked Mrs Grunball, her hook-nose peeking over the top of the local paper, let’s say The Haversham Herald. Mrs Grunball isn’t Mr Grunball’s wife, as you’d assume, but his brother, Mr Grunball’s wife, she’s staying for a while, it’s a complex situation, the word ‘triangle’ features. I know it’s tantalising, but it’s a different story, so put it to the back of your mind for the time being.

‘No not really, but he’s going to, I can tell, there’s always a pattern to this lad’s behaviour and I’m privy to it, I’ll tell you that much,’ answered Mr Grunball, still focused on the activity outside.

‘So what’s he doing?’ probed Mrs Grunball further.

‘Yeah you see, that’s exactly it, that’s the reason he gets away with it. He’s so subtle and sly about it, no one bats an eyelid,’ responded Mr Grunball.

‘You’re not answering my question Clive, what’s he actually doing?’ persisted Mrs Grunball.

‘He’s devious, skulking…’ Clive trailed off, until; ‘There! He’s doing it, he’s fucking laughing at me again!’

‘Clive! Language!’ yelled Mrs Grunball as she stood to join him at the window. ‘Oh him,’ she said upon seeing the object of Mr Grumball’s frustrations, ‘Clive, how many times? Dogs don’t actually laugh, they don’t express themselves in that way.’

‘They bloody do Sarah, they bloody do!’ and with that he stormed out and spent ages locked in the bathroom.

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