Jack Hayward poked a swollen finger at the remote control and switched the channel. He couldn’t stand watching the news. Even the theme tune gave him the heebie-jeebies. There was always some sort of death or destruction going on. They never talked about any of the good stuff.
Jack struggled to look on the bright side of life as it was. It wasn’t easy to be positive and bubbly when you were confined to a chair for every waking hour. He’d lost count of the illnesses and ailments the doctors told him he had. He’d stopped listening after a while. Nothing but bad news.
He looked at the clock on his mantelpiece and calculated how long it’d be before Veronica popped in. There wasn’t much else to do but count down. To what, he didn’t know. It was good to see a familiar face when he didn’t have much else, but he had to admit he wasn’t all that keen on her. It was nice that she popped in twice a day, but he wondered how much effort she’d put in if she wasn’t conveniently on her way to or from work, or if their front doors weren’t two feet apart.
He chastised himself silently for thinking that way. He’d be even grumpier if she didn’t pop in. He supposed he should be grateful, but it was difficult when he didn’t feel he had much to be grateful for. As much as he appreciated Veronica’s unimpressive efforts, he’d much rather not need them in the first place. He’d been happier and more appreciative when he’d had his health, he thought, before realising he hadn’t been appreciative in the slightest. Perhaps he should’ve been, he pondered.
He leaned across to his side table, feeling his back creaking as he did, and carefully took the clingfilm off the sandwiches Veronica had left out for him that morning. He took a bite from one and grimaced. He had no idea what she’d put in them, but it tasted foul.
He threw the remains of the sandwich at the plate and swallowed, hoping the taste would disappear quickly. No such luck. Glancing back at the side table, he saw the bottle Veronica had left next to the plate of sandwiches. Some poncy organic juice she’d spotted in one of her daft health food shops. He’d much rather wash down the vomit sandwiches with a nice pint of mild, but he supposed this would have to do. It certainly couldn’t be any worse.
He opened the bottle and sniffed. Grapefruit. Not so bad, as far as fruits went — which wasn’t far in Jack’s book. He opened his mouth and took a few big swigs, swilling the juice around his mouth in an attempt to purge the taste of the sandwich. He’d have to have a word with her about that. It just wasn’t on.
By the time he felt confident enough to see if the taste had gone, he’d already downed half the bottle. It tasted better than the sandwiches, but not by much. After a few more swigs, he put the juice back down on the table and returned to the television.