Delhi Belly

‘Monsoon?’ Geraldine scoffed. ‘Rubbish!’ Okay, but with the sound of that rain I could hardly think to play Scrabble. ‘Otiose?’ she snapped. ‘That’s not a word!’

She’d invited me on one of her trips buying gems and jewellery for her boutique. We’d stay with Florrie and have such fun.

‘What about a drink?’ The chink of ice in Geraldine’s glass was half the fun. Fine, those ice cubes from the kitchen freezer should keep her happy. Scotch on the rocks for one.

‘Poor lassie,’ Florrie said in the morning as we watched the ambulance depart. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing I gave you.’ Florrie lit another cigarette from the stub of the old, the last gasp of the Raj, and clapped her hands at a fat old crow perched on the window sill. They helped to keep down the cockroaches. This one dipped a wing as it took off, a bellyful of cockroach.

The aircraft dipped a wing over the fuzz of lights below. ‘Drink, sir?’

‘A whisky and soda perhaps.’

‘Ice?’

‘No, thanks.’