It was baffling, the lot of it.
Her legs jolted into a metal contraption undoubtedly fabricated during the glory days of the Third Reich, an unnervingly slick-talking medic rummaging around in her most private parts, and her utterly useless twat of a husband managing to once again showcase his unrivalled talent for stating the blatantly obvious.
“Push, dear. You can do it!”
There should be a time and a place for everything – and playing the trumpet at dawn in front of my building isn’t taking either of those into consideration, Avery thought.
Then the fact that he was still in possession of a head hit him – hard. It was the kind of head that felt like it would be best of supporting a very minor part of the Great Wall of China, not the kind of head he enjoyed having growing from his neck on an early Saturday morning after far too many G&T’s the night before, especially being rudely awoken by a trumpet player that couldn’t have misjudged the suitability of his venue more than he was doing right now.
