From an early age they’d called her Babbling Brook.
The running joke was that she’d been talking with incessant agitation as her mother was pushing her out.
Now it was as part of her as her blue eyes, or the way she cringed in outward frustration when a person mispronounced “specifically”.
“How hard can it be not to say pacifically?” She’d moan, before ranting away on the subject for the most part of the next day.
If her pet tortoises, Gnasher and Rasher minded then they didn’t say.
Brook’s other half didn’t mind either. It wasn’t easy to be outwitted by an imaginary boyfriend.
She had tried relationships, but they just didn’t work out. So, was now on a sex and sofa-snog sabbatical and had been for near on two years.
The only trouble with such an audacious plan was that sometimes she missed cuddles and her battery operated pal was just too…well…battery operated.
A happy medium had to be available. One that allowed Brook an evening with an attentive guy, who just didn’t mind being told to fuck off home at the end of the night.
‘Though, isn’t that prostitution?’ She asked Gnasher.
He didn’t reply.
Rasher; the one she’d painted a pink spot on, did look up for a moment, but then returned to munching his lettuce.
Brook stroked his wrinkled head, was reminded of something she needed to do and trawled off to the shops for more batteries.