Tales from Parker Road (Death Barbecues and a Toast Rack) Read online

  Rack & Ruined

  Greg wanted a solid silver toast rack.

  Kate did not want a toast rack. Any toast rack.

  The pearled octogenarian stood in front of them holding a 183-gram, solid silver, four-slice Edwardian toast rack. One wanted to purchase it, the other wanted to leave the shop and have an argument about how much they didn’t need to purchase it.

  That wasn’t the end, or even the beginning of the end, but it was something, and there was an end…

  ‘Where’s the coffee?’ asked Kate.

  Greg pointed to the cupboard above the sink. ‘In the bespoke Victorian hand-painted ceramic coffee caddy.’

  Kate was perfectly content with the airtight chrome canister from House of Discounts and didn’t appreciate the coffee’s new home.

  ‘Jesus, Greg. You can’t just keep buying crap.’

  ‘It’s not crap. I’m trying to buy quality.’

  Kate shook the caddy and watched as coffee sprayed over the floor. ‘Quality? This hasn’t been airtight for a hundred years. And while we’re on the subject of stuff we don’t need, why do we have a new toaster?’ said Kate, stabbing her finger towards the titanium box on the kitchen bench.

  ‘It has five different settings for muffins and eight for crumpets.’

  ‘We don’t eat muffins or crumpets.’

  ‘But now we can,’ said Greg. ‘Perfect ones.’

  Kate jabbed a finger towards another new acquisition. ‘And why do we have a German crystal wine decanter when you don’t spend more than two quid on a bottle of anything?’

  ‘It’s not like you don’t spend money.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘How many pairs of shoes do you own?’

  ‘That’s different. I’m a woman. I need shoes.’

  ‘Well, if you can have shoes, I can have Japanese stainless steel egg cups.’

  ‘Japanese egg cups,’ shouted Kate. ‘This has to stop, Greg. Last week you bought a Victorian pencil sharpener in the shape of a Scots terrier, for God’s sake.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You hate dogs and when was the last time you used a pencil?’

  Kate hadn’t had her morning coffee and wasn’t in her calm place.

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you, Kate?’

  Kate glared at Greg for several seconds before jerking the cord from the wall and drop-kicking the toaster across the kitchen. She broke her toe and screamed the instant the toaster bounced off Greg’s head into the decanter.

  When Greg regained consciousness, he was lying among 126 shards of exquisite Teutonic craftsmanship, his head felt like a child’s paddling pool full of apricot yoghurt and he wasn’t having muffins, crumpets or red wine for breakfast.

  Greg hauled himself up and spotted the note written in pencil stuck to the fridge.

  Ha!

  You are dumped, Greg.

  Oh.

  Greg’s shopping list of replacement items was getting longer.

  Half an hour later Greg placed an egg into a stainless steel egg cup and dropped two lumps of sugar into a mug using a pair of elegantly designed but uneconomical Danish sugar tongs.

  He sat and contemplated Kate’s inexplicable behaviour.

  It was a shame the toaster was broken.

  Greg had a lovely 183-gram, solid silver, four-slice Edwardian toast rack.