by Mike Cunningham
He placed the key into the lock, twisted it and the door swung open, the hinges creaking in protest. He entered the darkened living room, then strode quickly across to the kitchen door. He entered the kitchen, sniffing the strong odours of spilt beer, old curry and more beer. Spotting the note as it had been laid purposefully just where his eyes might find it, in the light coming through the window where it wasn’t shaded by the drooping curtain, he lifted the section of torn computer paper away from the pile of dirty dishes in the cluttered sink, unfolded it and flattened it against the grubby kitchen table.
His eyes scanned the message contained within those cursory sentences, and, smiling broadly now, he went back into the living room and picked up the bag which he had dropped upon entering the flat. He reached down, found the new wall plugs bought within the hour, and walking back into the kitchen, plugged in the electric drill and re-did the fixings for the curtain-rod which had fallen out.
After re-hanging the curtain, he fetched the bag into the kitchen and, delving inside, he retrieved the detergent and, flipping it open with one finger, walked back into the kitchen, ready to do his duty.
The scrawled words which lit up his mind read “Gone to get my hair done! The kitchen curtain is down again because you are still useless at d.i.y. Do the dishes; it’s your turn!
Love you lots!