Abigail pulled up the collar of her threadbare coat against the bitter, snow laden wind. Hunched against the sleet, she forced her cold, aged limbs to move and shuffled down the litter strewn street. Her feet were blue already as she trudged through the snow in her worn out shoes towards the town centre. Her destination loomed ahead in the drifting snow that was thickening with every step. The warm glow of the brightly lit foyer was inviting and Abigail struggled to lever her 87 year old frame up the cold concrete steps. The front office of the Evening Standard was presided over by a heavily made-up blonde girl in her twenties with the detached, uncaring attitude of the terminally bored.
"Hello love, can I help"? The receptionist drawled with an arched eyebrow, putting aside the nail file with unconcealed irritation.
Abigail pulled an old purse from her coat pocket and passed over a much folded scrap of paper with some scrawled writing on it. "My husband Wilf, he died you see dear". She said, pointing to the paper in explanation. "We were married 55 years and we met during the war!" She added, a sad, wistful look passing over her rheumy old eyes.
"Oh yeah - obituaries then?" The receptionist cut in, still inspecting her vivid pink nails.
"Yes dear, sadly." Abigail nodded, tears filling her eyes. "He was a wonderful, caring and generous man, so it's the least I can do".
"Mmm, well it's a fiver a word". The eyebrow arched once more.
"Oh my word!" Abigail cried, her bony fingers crowding her mouth. "I can't believe it's so much - OK just say Wilf Jones Dead. That's three words, I can just about afford fifteen pounds dear". Abigail said sadly.
"We couldn't possibly print such a thing madam!" The receptionist said haughtily but softened as she saw the old lady's frail shoulders shaking as she cried. "Well I'm sure we can do something a little better for you - considering how long you were married and all, how about seven words for your fifteen pounds? I can probably swing that for you?"
"Oh my dear!" Abigail replied, renewed hope showing on her weathered face. "That is so kind, however will I thank you?" She smiled, clasping her hands together.
"Oh its ok, just think about what you want to say with those seven words dear and I'll have it printed in this Thursday's edition".
Abigail, looked almost happy as she thought for a moment before replying;
"Ok dear, say this; Wilf Jones Dead - Golf Clubs For Sale!"
"Hello love, can I help"? The receptionist drawled with an arched eyebrow, putting aside the nail file with unconcealed irritation.
Abigail pulled an old purse from her coat pocket and passed over a much folded scrap of paper with some scrawled writing on it. "My husband Wilf, he died you see dear". She said, pointing to the paper in explanation. "We were married 55 years and we met during the war!" She added, a sad, wistful look passing over her rheumy old eyes.
"Oh yeah - obituaries then?" The receptionist cut in, still inspecting her vivid pink nails.
"Yes dear, sadly." Abigail nodded, tears filling her eyes. "He was a wonderful, caring and generous man, so it's the least I can do".
"Mmm, well it's a fiver a word". The eyebrow arched once more.
"Oh my word!" Abigail cried, her bony fingers crowding her mouth. "I can't believe it's so much - OK just say Wilf Jones Dead. That's three words, I can just about afford fifteen pounds dear". Abigail said sadly.
"We couldn't possibly print such a thing madam!" The receptionist said haughtily but softened as she saw the old lady's frail shoulders shaking as she cried. "Well I'm sure we can do something a little better for you - considering how long you were married and all, how about seven words for your fifteen pounds? I can probably swing that for you?"
"Oh my dear!" Abigail replied, renewed hope showing on her weathered face. "That is so kind, however will I thank you?" She smiled, clasping her hands together.
"Oh its ok, just think about what you want to say with those seven words dear and I'll have it printed in this Thursday's edition".
Abigail, looked almost happy as she thought for a moment before replying;
"Ok dear, say this; Wilf Jones Dead - Golf Clubs For Sale!"
Good one!
