Verity Specialprice-Luckman was in need of a lover. The thirteenth husband had begun to bore her.
Three weeks was more than enough time to become irritated by his excessive breathing in and then out again.
She could have him “removed”, of course, as she had done with the others, but the local constabulary were becoming officiously suspicious and the back garden was turning into a mess.
So, she would just have to attract another lover.
But to whom should she turn.
It couldn’t be anyone within her circle of friends, because, astoundingly, she didn’t have a circle of friends.
She had acquaintances: passing shadows who mumbled their names and then buzzed off into the far reaches of whatever room she owned, but nobody who peaked her attention.
She picked up the morning paper. Maybe there was a suitable candidate within its inky pages.
Only bores and hoodlums appeared from the first forty sheets she skipped with noisy irritation.
Then it was that she stopped at a page with the picture of a gypsy lady growling up at her, alongside the heading: HOROSCOPES.
“How singularly silly,” she mused as she Indulged whimsy to look for her date of birth and corresponding daily advice.
There it was, underneath Scorpio, a paragraph which read:
You are a monster of energy today! It is time for you to take a higher place in the universe. You think you want other things, but I suspect your heart is not in it. Your lucky number is 52 and your lucky colour is black.
Verity huffed at the last line. She had always believed her lucky number was thirteen. It was the reason why she had married that intolerable breather, Markus Luckman. Fifty-two was such a silly number, until she realised it was her present age.
“How peculiar,” she told the empty room, before an annoying pain shot up her left arm and across her chest.
She keeled over, spilling hot tea on to her pure white lace table cloth, and died before she could curse her clumsiness.
Markus Luckman went on to breathe a very content and well rounded life, cultivating pork pies for the royal houses of Europe. And even found happiness in a young lady of jolly stock. He didn’t read horoscopes. He was on the cusp of three signs, so could never decide which to choose.
The garden went on to sprout human trees. This drew suspicious looks from all but Allan Titchmarsh. Despite his limp, soft appearance, he was partial to a dead body or two.
The world turned. The sun burned. I…well, I don’t matter do I, so mind your own bloody business.
Oh, if you must know I’m a criminal in jail for crisp rustling. I get bored of men wanting to womanise my “sweet cheeks” and the bile for food, so I scribble stories. This was one. Or is it two?
Got to go, Big Maurice is on the prowl.