The Witch Queen

Hola mi novia, ¿cuándo hay un cenicero en el cielo?

I nodded knowingly to my Good Lady and gave her the cheeky wink which implied some chorizo might be forthcoming in her bean stew.

Mi cocodrilo jamon tiene hambre?

She ventured slowly, demonstrating her superior Spanish after many years of Duolingo.

Ah si.

I nodded reassuringly.

Well, now that the morning bollocks were out of the way. I turned to my laptop and began to type.

Now, where had I been? Not on Hive obviously! But why? Well, if you cast your mind back you will remember that I was preparing to go on a vacation to Ibiza. Which I did. For a whole two weeks.

It was the most relaxing time ever. Well, what I can remember that is.

I do have a distinct memory of drinking Four Long Island Ice Teas one afternoon before moving on to the Espresso Martinis. It was a glorious time. The Good Lady chose that particular day to be angry about something, possibly the weather. I was too busy imagining my eyes were lasers and burning the boats in the harbour.

Of course there were other delights on holiday beyond me getting sloshed on cocktails.

Sometimes I got sloshed on beer. Or wine. Or beer and wine.

Even beer cocktails and wine.

But alas, the holiday had to end.

So I ended up back in Blighty and I thought, I have to get back on the Hive. Writing posts and shooting shit.

But before I could even blink I was summoned for Jury duty. How could I, an upstanding citizen not obey the call?

So I did that for a whole week and then it was over.

Back home, I settled into the everyday life of a chump. Pretending to be a good parent and a conscientious worker.

When are you going to write a Hive post?

The Good Lady would ask of an evening.

I would sputter with indignation like a fox that has eaten too much melon.

I am going to write one, I have lots of tales to tell.

Then I would open my laptop and prepare to tell the tales only to be distracted by YouTube and short videos of everyday objects being crushed by an industrial press thing or a man wearing a horse-head mask drumming in a bathtub.

After a sufficient amount of my brain had melted from watching such video trash I would look up from my laptop, my eyes crusty and red like a Welshman's foot and realise it was time to go to bed.

And so my life continued.

One day I heard a call from outside the window of the upstairs bedroom. I opened the window and looked out.

There was a floppy-haired young man standing outside a van with a brush in his hand.

You look like you are needing your gutters done?

He yelled up at me.

I looked at him in wonder, could it be true? Had I been trapped in some fairytale castle under the curse of a witch queen?

I think my gutters are fucking fine.

I yelled back at my newly found prince. Was he here to slay the dragon and release me from my imprisonment?

I can see grass growing out of them from here!

Yelled the young prince, his van beginning to resemble a fine steed.

My gutters are fine, gonnae fuck off?

I called, frantic with excitement now that freedom from the Witch Queen was in sight. I wondered, should I let down my flowing blonde locks out of the window so that the young Prince might climb up to the top of the tower?

Your loss mate.

Said the Prince with a decidedly un-princely snarl. He started walking over to my neighbours, no doubt to tell him he could see grass growing out of his back passage.

Fuck you, you fucking arse piece!

I bellowed in joy at my rescuer as I closed the window in joy.

Free, free at last! No more was I in the witch queen's clutches!

Now, where was my laptop?