By Di Hancock
Leaning heavily on his sticks, he waddled and rolled to the seat accompanied by a grey haired woman – presumably his wife – who pulled the chair out further from the table for him.
His legs were like tree trunks encased in fawn, stretchy jogging bottoms with bulging thighs, swollen knees and ankles ending in splayed, tiny feet over which his belly hung, enveloped in a faded, misshapen, orange sweater. Pudgy, swollen fingers protruded at the sleeve ends and above the thick rings of folded flesh that was his neck, a pale, freckled, fat, face topped by greying, greasy, red hair hissed breathlessly to his hapless companion—
“ I’ve ‘ad breakfast so see if they are doin’ the menu –if not I’ll ‘ave the Xmas dinner special– whichever’s the quickest”.
Continue Reading This Story