I took a pan from the shelf and poured water in, meaning to boil eggs.
‘I intend to become a poet,’ my friend Roland proclaimed. ‘I shall become the People’s Voice of Merseyside.’
I put it on the stove and lit the gas.
‘My talent will be recognised in all corners, but I shall shun offers to become poet laureate; he is merely an Establishment tool.’
I placed four eggs in the water (forget what Granny said, there’s no need for vinegar or baking soda.)
‘Would you like me to recite my latest piece?’
I estimated I had six minutes more of this to endure before we ate.
Roland opened his Woolworth Reporter’s Notebook and flicked through pages searching for his place.
I checked the minutes on my pocket watch.
Roland declaimed:
One day alone at my house in Fazakerley
I was making myself a nice cup-a-tea
When the doorbell rang
And outside stood a gang
Of Mormons who had come to convert-a-me.
He paused. I imagined in his head Roland was hearing cheering crowds at St. George’s Hall.
There were two minutes before the eggs were ready.
‘Tell me what you think,’ Roland requested.
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘two can play at this game,’ and I extemporised:
Three young pals out on a spree to Lark Lane
Flirt with every Olivia, Isla and Jane
Two go home empty handed
Leaving the other one stranded
With a pretty girl who turns out to be Wayne.
We ate our eggs in silence.
Click here for more stories involving Roland
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 