HARRY AND HIS GIRLS by Mike Steeden

Above, the one-eyed girl before the accident. Artist unknown.

The one-eyed girl of almost fatal disasters had spent the entire morning wondering why blokes…for the main part…prefer revolvers and rifles over the humble hand-grenade. By lunchtime, she’d given up pondering, saying to herself, “What do I know,” for the time had come for scoffing yesterday’s leftovers of Tikka Masala, now as cold as a witch’s tit, all because she’d left it in the freezer rather than the fridge, overnight. Thankfully, next door to her, her chubby neighbour called Harry, and he had a top-dollar microwave. All was well, she’d have fiery poor-man’s banquet.

She had a soft spot for Harry even though it was he who cost her an eye, an eye that she’d covered with a proper pirate’s blindfold. On the night of the catastrophe, when playing darts down the local pub, Harry’s first dart missed the dartboard completely, then bounced off the wall, and instead landed smack in her eye. Harry was never that good when it came to darts. Even so, she knew she was still beautiful. Yes, she had a good few scars dotted around her person, all born of uncanny mishaps, to go with her reduced by fifty percent vision, but she didn’t care. ‘Life is too short’, her motto.

Feeling a tad guilty while devouring her grub while sat at the kitchen table in his place, especially so as ever-hungry Harry was salivating as he gawped at her plate full of delicious Indian curry, in the end she shared it with him.

Finally the pair got to chatting. Harry was good at chatting.

“Have you ever been married, H?” She called him ‘H’ out of preference.

“Me? You’re having a laugh luv; not me. I’m a free spirit,” so said a chuckling Harry.

“I’ve never married either. I feel like I’m missing something,” the words of a gloomy girl.

“Like what?”

“Certainly not a kid or anything like that. I don’t know what I want really.”

Nine months later, having sold their respective properties, and bought a new roof over their heads in Timbuktu, the beautiful girl with the proper pirate’s blindfold, gave birth to Harlow.

“Good thing they don’t have pubs with dartboards over here, H.”

“Too true, luv. Mind you, I’ve spotted a few hand grenades.”

“You’re your pulling my leg, surely?”

“Of course I am luv. I’m loving it here. Better still, we fit in; we’re the right colour, unlike when we got all those insults since Brexit kicked in. It’s a shame really, I quite liked England, after all the both of us were born and bred there, but most of those white Brexiteers can’t stand the likes of us. Mind you, they’ll get their comeuppance as the Brexit thing has fallen apart. Give me Timbuktu any day of the week over England. ‘Course, I’ve got a bonus here, I’ve got you and my little girl, ain’t I.”

All was well, with H and his girls.