Amazon Strikes Again with "the best Short Story book of the Century." (Mis-Quote from the dyscalculic drunk on page 234).
- Trevor Watts
- 2 days ago
- 3 min read
That's when I lost it, Your Honour
Read the full, unbelievable story here - "I Lost It"
I got the job.
That was all the text said. It was enough. I was absolutely delighted for her. I rang the High Time Restaurant and booked us in for a celebratory meal. ‘Can you lay on some candles and a cake? She’s been after this job for a year or more.’
It would absolutely make her. Wow, I kept thinking, My wife, doing that!
I was so pleased for her all afternoon. Winner!
Still really made up for her, I rang the florist to deliver her a huge basket of roses; informed the two guys I work with; told the taxi driver; and texted my mum.
***
I arrived home. The flowers had been delivered. They were sticking out the green bin.
She was dead-eyed, like one of them big fish they have on the slab in Morrison’s. Really cold look at me. ‘I don’t need you any more, Joe.’
She meant it. My mouth drooped to half open and I felt it slackening lower. ‘Not need me? What do you mean? But… but… Alexandra? I mean… We’re married.’
‘You have until noon tomorrow.’ A little shrug. As if, ‘There: that’s dealt with.’ She turned to something else – the next thing on her list of Must-dos, like she does.
‘I’m your husband,’ I was sort of gibbering. ‘And the kids. We have three children, remember? Alice and Ray and…’
Another shrug. She muttered something.
***
‘That’s when I lost it, Your Honour. No, the telly remote. I didn’t rant and rave and scream and throw things. I’m not like her. And I certainly didn’t kill her, whatever she says. I mean… she exaggerates.’
They all seemed to stare at me in varying degrees of disbelief
‘Yes, I did lose it – No. If you keep interrup— I admitted that to the officers. She went mad at me when I simply stood there with my mouth wide open: threw a wobbly, and the fruit bowl. She was intending to dismiss me and watch the telly. But she couldn’t. Because the remote wasn’t where she thought it was. I’m always in for a bit of a tricky time when she loses her rag; does her nut; and/or comes at me with the bottle of prosecco. But this time, she tripped on all the plums and nectarines out the fruit bowl, and knocked herself out for a moment on the coffee table—’
The pudgy, scrubbed chap up there mumbled something at me about coffee tables.
‘Yes, your honour; Ikea, it’s very sturdy.’
‘You’re not here to advertise Ikea, young man,’
‘No, your Honour. But the only thing I lost was the remote control for the telly. I mean, it must be there somewhere, among all the debris. It wasn’t me who wrecked the place. It was her who lost her rag when I managed to bring her round after her clash with the coffee table. She then proceeded to smash things up, purely because she couldn’t find the remote and so she couldn’t watch the telly; and couldn’t ignore me. Totally lost her temper with me. It wasn’t me who started the violence. I didn’t even retaliate. I told the officers the same: I don’t do that kind of thing.
‘The remote, Your Honour? No – still haven’t found it. I don’t remember anything about where I might have put it – or where she misplaced it herself.
‘No, Sir. No memory of its whereabouts at all.’
Mind you, if she attempts anything of that nature again, I can see there being some interesting times ahead: I do remember what I have stored at the back of the shed. Top shelf. Right-hand side. A half-full tub of rat poison.
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