he’s onto
something. Or at least, he thinks he is, as he’s staring at me with such
arrogant confidence that I just want to slap him.
“Car keys?” I ask, blinking
rapidly. “Why? Where are we going?”
Taking my beautiful bouquet, he
gestures towards the front door with a sweeping arm, throws me a smug
get-out-of-this-one-smart-arse look and declares, “The hand clinic.”
Chapter
7 - Carry on Doctor
Sunday
30 th December (afternoon)
The thirty-minute journey to
the hand clinic is just like riding shot-gun with Billy the Kid - dodging
bullets and holding on for dear life! Though no one’s actuallyshooting
at us, Will’s really gunning for me and driving like a nutter, tailgating and
amber-gambling every set of lights.
We’re bickering like mad.
Wounded by the flowers, he’s firing stupid questions at me and I’m
giving smart, stinging answers, deliberately trying to wind him up.
“You can’t say I never give you
flowers,” he snaps, inferiority complex kicking in. “I distinctly remember
buying some. In August.”
I think about it for a while
then roll my eyes, exasperated.
“That was a wreath ,
Will,” I inform him sarcastically. “For my Uncle Joe’s funeral. That doesn’t
count. You’re pathetic . Try again.”
He doesn’t bother, so I use the
brief interlude to re-stoke my ammo, ready to let fly. It’s pointless. Rattled
by my wreath dig, Will turns up the radio. It’s a common diversionary tactic,
it makes my blood boil and he knows it. I could bait him now until kingdom
come, but I’d be wasting my breath, the shutters are down.
Running inexcusably late having
squabbled for half an hour over whether to put my lovely flowers in water, or,
as Will would have preferred, in the dustbin, we’re taking the short cut
through Central Square - the jewel in Goldwell’s crown.
Home to Will’s office, the
Square - formerly a huge stretch of rambling fields and lush greenbelt land -
sprang up at the turn of the Millennium, the real cows replaced by
designer concrete ones, grazing on a grassy island in the middle to appease the
conservationists.
With its vibrant mix of trendy
cafe-bars, restaurants and eateries, not to mention a wide range of shops,
stores and outlets, it’s our favourite weekend haunt - when we’re not haunting
each other - especially the StarBar, where we hang out with friends whenever we
can arrange a sitter for the kids.
Attracting a close-knit
clientele mostly made up of the local twenty-to-thirty-somethings, and the odd
curious out-of-towner, the Square buzzes around the clock at weekends yet winds
down midweek, allowing residents to settle into a calm-yet-cosmopolitan way of
life.
Today being a Sunday, we’d
assumed nipping through the Square would be quicker than taking the main road
into Nottingham. We were wrong. Judging by the heaving mass of bustling
shoppers on the pavements and the gridlocked, honking traffic every which way
we turn, it appears the entire population of Goldwell has decided to stuff the
day of rest and indulge in a spot of bargain-hunting.
The atmosphere in the car is
thick and volatile; you could slice it with a knife. Will, not renowned for his
patience in traffic-jams, looks as if he’s about to simultaneously combust at
the wheel.
“Grrr. Whose idea was this?” he
fumes. “I knew we should have gone my way.”
Seeing a mass of queuing
vehicles as we approach the main strip traffic lights, he jerks the car into
reverse, shooting up the back street which runs behind the chain stores,
connecting with the bypass.
“No, no, no!’ We haven’t got
time, we’ll get . . .”
Before I can say ‘stuck’ -
ta-da! We were sandwiched between a Woolworth’s van and an articulated Argos
home delivery lorry, the driver of which is much more interested in the
Sunday Sport and his sandwich than the fact he’s causing an obstruction.
Being big on manners, this
touches a nerve with Will, who combusts. When his ‘polite’ hooting is
something. Or at least, he thinks he is, as he’s staring at me with such
arrogant confidence that I just want to slap him.
“Car keys?” I ask, blinking
rapidly. “Why? Where are we going?”
Taking my beautiful bouquet, he
gestures towards the front door with a sweeping arm, throws me a smug
get-out-of-this-one-smart-arse look and declares, “The hand clinic.”
Chapter
7 - Carry on Doctor
Sunday
30 th December (afternoon)
The thirty-minute journey to
the hand clinic is just like riding shot-gun with Billy the Kid - dodging
bullets and holding on for dear life! Though no one’s actuallyshooting
at us, Will’s really gunning for me and driving like a nutter, tailgating and
amber-gambling every set of lights.
We’re bickering like mad.
Wounded by the flowers, he’s firing stupid questions at me and I’m
giving smart, stinging answers, deliberately trying to wind him up.
“You can’t say I never give you
flowers,” he snaps, inferiority complex kicking in. “I distinctly remember
buying some. In August.”
I think about it for a while
then roll my eyes, exasperated.
“That was a wreath ,
Will,” I inform him sarcastically. “For my Uncle Joe’s funeral. That doesn’t
count. You’re pathetic . Try again.”
He doesn’t bother, so I use the
brief interlude to re-stoke my ammo, ready to let fly. It’s pointless. Rattled
by my wreath dig, Will turns up the radio. It’s a common diversionary tactic,
it makes my blood boil and he knows it. I could bait him now until kingdom
come, but I’d be wasting my breath, the shutters are down.
Running inexcusably late having
squabbled for half an hour over whether to put my lovely flowers in water, or,
as Will would have preferred, in the dustbin, we’re taking the short cut
through Central Square - the jewel in Goldwell’s crown.
Home to Will’s office, the
Square - formerly a huge stretch of rambling fields and lush greenbelt land -
sprang up at the turn of the Millennium, the real cows replaced by
designer concrete ones, grazing on a grassy island in the middle to appease the
conservationists.
With its vibrant mix of trendy
cafe-bars, restaurants and eateries, not to mention a wide range of shops,
stores and outlets, it’s our favourite weekend haunt - when we’re not haunting
each other - especially the StarBar, where we hang out with friends whenever we
can arrange a sitter for the kids.
Attracting a close-knit
clientele mostly made up of the local twenty-to-thirty-somethings, and the odd
curious out-of-towner, the Square buzzes around the clock at weekends yet winds
down midweek, allowing residents to settle into a calm-yet-cosmopolitan way of
life.
Today being a Sunday, we’d
assumed nipping through the Square would be quicker than taking the main road
into Nottingham. We were wrong. Judging by the heaving mass of bustling
shoppers on the pavements and the gridlocked, honking traffic every which way
we turn, it appears the entire population of Goldwell has decided to stuff the
day of rest and indulge in a spot of bargain-hunting.
The atmosphere in the car is
thick and volatile; you could slice it with a knife. Will, not renowned for his
patience in traffic-jams, looks as if he’s about to simultaneously combust at
the wheel.
“Grrr. Whose idea was this?” he
fumes. “I knew we should have gone my way.”
Seeing a mass of queuing
vehicles as we approach the main strip traffic lights, he jerks the car into
reverse, shooting up the back street which runs behind the chain stores,
connecting with the bypass.
“No, no, no!’ We haven’t got
time, we’ll get . . .”
Before I can say ‘stuck’ -
ta-da! We were sandwiched between a Woolworth’s van and an articulated Argos
home delivery lorry, the driver of which is much more interested in the
Sunday Sport and his sandwich than the fact he’s causing an obstruction.
Being big on manners, this
touches a nerve with Will, who combusts. When his ‘polite’ hooting is
Similar Books
