Weekly Trash Pickup Can Be Unexpectedly Dramatic

13 November 2026

Story # 2040

R. Linda:

Wednesday be trash bin pickup day. Yes, indeed, the trash company comes and picks up the trash, and you start all over again, filling the large wheelie bin for the next Wednesday. There is no roadside pickup; we live in a rural state, so you either take your trash to the 'transfer station,' AKA the dump, or you pay to have it hauled away. 

When I first moved here, me little house wasn't far from the transfer station and, I must admit, it was quite a place to traverse. You came in a queue, and as you sat waiting your turn, there was a lot to see! There was a section where you could pick up free stuff, like music CDs (oh, all the Phil Collins me wife brought home!) and even machines to play them on! You could find all manner of discarded and used items: stuffed animals, children's 'lightly used' toys, tools for the tool man, all kinds of things. 

Then, as you moved along, you would meet your neighbours doing the same as you, chatting out your car window with your thermos of steaming coffee, discussing property taxes, voting the wrong person into office, and all sorts of semi-important matters. 

As you inch on up, you watch these same neighbours dump household trash at one spot, move on to metals at another, then wood items, and the list goes on. You could be there most of the day, but as I said, lots to see and plenty of 'talkers' to keep you occupied.

Those days are gone. The transfer station for me horsey town is in another town, and it's a drive, let me tell you! So instead, I paid to have me trash hauled away once a week. I have watched them come early, backing down me driveway, which is five football fields long. Why they back down, I have no clue. There is plenty of space to turn that huge truck around, but no, no, it is more exciting to back it down with the alert blaring at 8 in the morning. 

Anyway, when these trash men come (there are usually two), one gets out and supervises the drivers hooking up the wheelie bin, then watches as they lift it into the air and dump it into the truck bed. Then the gears grind as they compact the trash into a flat mess, and it's a loud process. So why am I telling you this? I know you are not interested in garbage disposal, as am I not interested, or anyone else, for that matter, BUT this Wednesday was not the usual efficient pickup.

Let me explain: Tonya cleared out the basement. It looked like a hoarder's mess from the kiddos over the years discarding things they no longer want. Like old toys, even old clothes, electronics, and I do believe a few Phil Collins CDs were in the bin to go.

There were huge black industrial bags of trash. Tonya had the two older kiddos haul these to the wheelie bin. They piled them so high the bin covers couldn't close. Then there was a large box from a ping-pong table that had come in, and it was positioned to lean against the bin. 

SO, last Wednesday, the truck backed down the driveway at eight in the morning, and the crash of the bin being emptied sounded as usual and off they drove. Well, later that day, me Mam goes out to take a box out to the bin, and what does she see? The pingpong box is under the wheelie bin; there is trash still half-filled in the bin, and she's flummoxed as to why this be. 

Later, at dinner, she tells me the bin wasn't emptied, and with the amount of money it costs me, they shouldn't be leaving anything. I go out and see what she told me is so, and I get more than a little bit ticked. 

I rang them up and told them I be unhappy they put the bin where they did, on top of the boxes that I couldn't get out from underneath because the wheelie bin be heavy, and that they left half the garbage still in the bin. The woman from the trash company informed me they'd pick all that up next Wednesday. I said, "NO! You pick it up tomorrow, or I cancel and get another trash company."

She said I was overreacting, which set me off more. I threatened to call the company's owner, and that did it. She told me to hold on while she called the driver of the route. I could hear him exploding that we had an inordinate amount of trash; he did his best the way WE had piled it up. He would get it next trash Wednesday. She told him, No, he'd get it tomorrow. He exploded again and told her she was setting him off his route and he'd be driving all the way on the other side of town for one load! Finally, in a huff, he agreed to get me trash. 

At 6:30, the next day, I heard "beep, beep, beep" as the trash guy backed down me driveway. Then silence. I went back to sleep for maybe a second before I heard "Boom, boom, boom!"

"What the hell is that?" Tonya, a deep sleeper, awoke and asked me.

"I think it's the trash guys." 

As I started to settle back to sleep, another "BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM" followed three seconds later, followed by a barrage of BOOMS. Sleep was over. No way was anyone going back to sleep. Instead, three kiddos were in the hall wiping sleepy dust out of their eyes and asking, "wots goin' on?" 

Mam came from her room to join us all in the hallway. And she knew what the commotion was about. Her bedroom window faces the part of the yard where the bin is. She watched the whole episode of one man beating the hell out of the wheelie bin, throwing the cardboard ping-pong box into the trash bin, then bringing the bin down to earth and crashing it into the ground. 

"He were mad, he were." She said, getting very Irish on me. "He kicked the shite out of the bin to loosen up the trash, and he was curing a red streak he was."

"Wait, what?" Guido said. 

"Dere wuz left over trash dat dey dint take." She said.

"No, wait, wait. That wasn't left over; that was the trash in the trash cans we didn't get out that day. I emptied them into the big bin when I came home."

Uh oh.

"Well, I, for one, don't want to be here NEXT Wednesday when he comes back," Tonya said, leaving us to make coffee.

I stood there looking at Guido, then at Mam, then back at Guido.

"Ye mean to tell me that the trash they left behind wasn't the trash they left behind?"

"Well, no," Guido said, scratching his head. "It was new trash. I put it in after they came."

There was a moment of silence. A very long moment of silence.

Mam was the first to break it.

"Well, Gariel, ye've made a right bollocks of this one, haven't ya?"

I could hear Tonya laughing from the kitchen, which wasn't helping me disposition one bit.

"So," I said, attempting to salvage what little dignity I had left, "what yer telling me is that I threatened to cancel me service, had a row with the woman in the office, threatened to call the owner, and dragged a raging madman back here at half-six in the morning to empty garbage that wasn't even there when he came yesterday?"

"Aye, ya arr," said Mam. "That about sooms it oop."

"And now the poor bastard's probably halfway to a nervous breakdown," Tonya called from the kitchen.

We went to the kitchen. I looked out the back door at me battered wheelie bin, standing there like a soldier returned from battle. I swear it was leaning a wee bit, but the noticeable battle scar was that one side of the lid was broken. I sighed. 

Yup

"Well," I said, "at least he got the cardboard box."

Nobody laughed. Well, that's not entirely true. The ALL laughed.

And so, dear R. Linda, I have learned two very important lessons. First, before you go raising holy hell with the trash company, make certain you know which trash you're raising hell about.

And second, come next Wednesday, I be contemplating leaving a peace offering, but then me family tells me the trash man will know the trash wasn't the original pile and get me in more trouble. 

"Just let sleeping dogs lie, Gabe." Was Tonya's suggestion.

Given that driver's temper, I may just hide behind the curtains when he comes next Wednesday. After all, I've no desire to be the next thing he throws into the back of that truck!

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Why I Write What I Do — Summed Up By Someone Else

10 November 2026

Story #2039

R. Linda:

Recently, I chatted online with one of me readers. The person is a journalist I have admired for many years and have come to know. We were talking about writing styles, and the subject turned to my blog. I told him I was thinking of winding down the blog and retiring. I also told him that me eldest, O'Hare, was showing interest in taking it over, but I didn't yet know what my decision was.

I asked him, given his education and experience, why he found me blog of interest. And what he said made me feel good about life in general. It's not often someone praises one's writing like he did, and I'm not fooling anyone to admit I'm FLATTERED. So here is one person who appreciates me crazy stories, not that the rest of you don't, but a professional telling you nice things is rare.

He said: "I find it fascinating that you can make a story out of so little. I think your humour makes readers notice the little things in life that can bring joy. It isn't always money and what material things you have; it's the people you love who are with you every step of the way. Even the Dragon Lady. And THAT, my dear Gabe, is precisely why I think your stories are worth telling.

"You don't need extraordinary circumstances to tell an extraordinary story. You need ordinary people being wonderfully, exasperatingly human. Think about what actually happened the other morning when the Dragon Lady misread a newspaper headline. A car wouldn't start. A trip to the bank took longer than expected. And someone discovered, to her horror, that a microphone had been broadcasting her every complaint. 

"That's it. That's the entire adventure. But YOU see the comedy in the details. You notice the elderly gentleman struggling between the van and the bank window. You remember the Dragon Lady's indignation, the teller's smirk, and, most importantly, the glorious silence on the way home. And you have a gift for making us feel as though we're sitting right beside you, watching it unfold.

"But there's something else, and I think it's even more important. There's affection underneath the exasperation. You call her the Dragon Lady. You complain about her incessant chatter. You describe her as a demented squirrel. Yet when she needs someone to drive her forty-five minutes to the bank, what do you do?

"You get in the car and take her. You might grumble, but you do it. And that, to me, is the heart of the story. Love doesn't always announce itself with grand gestures or beautiful speeches. Sometimes it looks like an inconvenient ninety-minute round trip with someone who drives you absolutely barking mad. And sometimes the reward is forty-five minutes of "sheer bliss" on the way home.

"I also think you've identified something important about why you started the blog. You're not merely preserving your funny stories. You're preserving a way of looking at life, one that recognises how much richness there is in ordinary days, familiar faces, family peculiarities, and the small absurdities we might otherwise forget.

"Years from now, someone reading these stories may not remember what the headlines were or what kind of car you drove. But they'll recognise the people. They'll recognise the love, the irritation, the laughter, and the little acts of kindness that hold families together. And they'll smile. Because the real treasure in your stories isn't what happens. It's the people it happens with. Even the Dragon Lady.

"Especially the Dragon Lady."

I thank you from me heart for that, Sir. It made me feel good to know someone I admire appreciates me little slice of Google. 

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

They Can Hear YOU!

08 November 2026

Story #2038

R. Linda:

Let me start right off with the Dragon Lady and the day's headlines. "Truckers Beware Workers For Associated Grocers Northeast Go On Strike."

She read that to me over morning coffee (yes, she's here AGAIN) and asked what I thought the truckers had to beware of; did I think the strikers were going to flatten the truck tyres or set the trucks on fire?

That's when I got up, looked at the headlines she had been misinterpreting, and read the true line out to her. 'Beware' should be 'warehouse.' HOW ON EARTH she saw 'beware' where 'warehouse' was, I have no clue.  She harrumphed and mumbled something unintelligible, and we both went back to our coffees.

About an hour later, she came in and said she couldn't find Tonya. I told her Tonya had taken the youngest kiddo to swim lessons and wouldn't be back until lunchtime. 

"Oh my. I offered to take Tonya's birthday cheque to the bank before lunch, and now it's getting on, and I haven't done that because the VW won't start."

An aside here: I bought Tonya a new Jetta because the VW was having problems. We kept the VW as a spare in case either her car or mine was unavailable. Well, the VW was in good enough shape for short trips, but you couldn't trust it for anything more. 

I sighed. There was nothing else to do but hop in me Saturn and take the Dragon to the bank. 

All the way (a 45-minute drive), she blathered on like a demented squirrel about this, that and the other thing. I grunted responses most of the way because I knew I couldn't get a word in if I tried. Finally, I got to the bank and asked if she was going inside or if she wanted me to go to the auto-teller. No, she said, go to the drive-thru window instead; it would be faster.

So I pull up, and there's this huge van in front of us, and it takes a long time for the transaction to go through. Then the van starts to pull away, but stops. The door opens, and this old, feeble man slides out between the van and the drive-thru window. He's really pressed against both and trying to lean down to pick up whatever he dropped.

This was painful to watch, and it took him a banchee's age to get whatever it was he dropped, straighten up as best he could, slide back into the van's impossibly narrow entry, and then drop it into the window drawer. There we were sitting again, for whatever the holdup on the transaction was.

"Maybe you should go in," I said.

"Oh, no. I am not dressed for the public." 

She was; she just didn't want to. 

Finally, the van pulls away, and we pull up. The teller in the window had her back to us and was talking to someone on the inside. 

"You'd think she had no customers," Dragon says to me in her loud Dragon voice, like someone who can't hear well.

The teller turned around and gave us a cheery "Good morning!" that didn't sound very cheery to me.

I set the money and deposit slip in the tray, and she took it.

In the other lane where the automatic teller was, a vehicle pulled up and started a transaction.

Dragon looks over and says to me, "Well, if they get done before us, I will be getting angry."

The car at the auto-teller finished and pulled off, and another one pulled in.

"Now I wonder why it is taking us so long to put money IN the bank. You would think with the time they are taking with US, we'd be done and gone by now. OH, WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT! That car is done and leaving, and WE are still sitting here like we have nothing to do all day!"

After another six or seven minutes, the teller smirks and slides the tray out with the receipt. 

"Have a great day!" She says sarcastically and slides the tray back in, still smirking.

I handed the receipt to Dragon and pulled away.

"You do know she heard everything you said, don't you? The microphone is never off. It isn't like the pharmacy pickup, where they can only hear you when they have the phone to their ears."

Her eyes were nearly popping out of her head. 

"Oh." 

That was it, that was all she said, and she was quiet for the 45-minute drive back home.

Forty-five minutes, mind ye. Not a question, not a complaint, not even a harrumph. I kept glancing over to make sure she was still with me.

And there I was, thinking back to the morning's headline about the truckers having to beware of striking warehouse workers.

Well, I don't know what those truckers had to beware of, but I can tell ye this much: the next time I take the Dragon Lady anywhere, I'm installing a microphone in me Saturn.

I might never have to listen to another word out of her again.

And for the first time in me life, I discovered that forty-five minutes in a car with the Dragon Lady could be an absolute pleasure.

Sheer bliss, I tell ya. Sheer bliss.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

The Murph, The Myth, And The Misunderstanding

06 November 2026

Story #2037

R. Linda:

I was sitting at me desk this morning, reminiscing to meself about days gone by. I had just got into work and was feeling a little foggy. Aye, I be having trouble with the time change still. 

I looked up as Ms Jaio popped her head in to say, "Good morning." She was holding a news article that had a photo of Rob Gronkowski posing at a polling place with a woman and her child. 

Just that image brought me back to January 2016, the morning after the Patriots lost the AFC Championship on a botched 2-point conversion, but others blamed it on the Gronk. That morning, I was assigned an interview that, for some reason, popped into me head today. Probably because the Gronk was in New Hampshire at the polling places urging people already there to vote. I thought that was moronic since that's why they were there, but then maybe Gronk had too many hits to the head. 

Anyway, I remember that morning in 2016, me head had felt like a construction site in Southie. Being a Northern Ireland transplant who had somehow bluffed me way into a staff writer gig at a Boston newspaper, I had been hiding behind a monitor, nursing a lukewarm Dunks.

Me editor, Cruella, a terrifying woman whose accent sounded like a chainsaw cutting through a tin can, smacked a folder onto me desk.

"O’Sully! You’re up. Carlton’s out with the flu, so you’re covering the South Boston Senior Centre’s annual charity drive. Go interview their lifetime achievement honoree. Name’s Murph."

I blinked. "Murph? Is there a last name?"

"Just Murph," Cruella barked. "He’s a local legend. Don't screw it up."

An hour later, I was sitting in a drafty community room across from a man who looked like a weathered piece of granite wearing a flat cap. Murph’s knuckles were the size of walnuts, and he looked at me voice recorder like it was a British spy device.

"Alright, Murph," I began, pulling out me notepad and turning on me best charm. "Let’s start with the basics. Where exactly in Boston did you grow up?"

Murph stared at me. A minute passed. I checked whether the man was still breathing.

"The town," Murph finally croaked.

"Right, yes, Boston," I said. "But which neighbourhood? Southie? Charlestown?"

"The town," Murph repeated, harder this time.

I frowned. I wondered if me thick Northern Irish accent was perhaps off-putting to him.

Now, I hadn't the foggiest notion what the man was on about. "Yes, but which town, Murph? Boston has many areas. It’s a city, you see."

Murph leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Are you thick, kid? The Town. C-Town. The square. Friggin' monuments."

"Ah!" I smiled, relieved. "The monument! So you’re from near the Wellington Monument in Phoenix Park?"

Murph’s jaw dropped. He looked around the room like he was searching for a hidden camera. "Phoenix Park? The hell are you talkin' about? Bunker Hill, you absolute bagel."

I nodded furiously, sweating through me sweater. "Bunker Hill! Got it. Moving on. The paper wants to know about your career. Me editor tells me you were heavily involved in the local... shipping and logistics industry in the 70s and 80s?"

Murph went dead silent. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. He slowly reached into his heavy wool coat. Me life flashed before me eyes. I thought of me Mam in Newry. I thought of me unpaid parking tickets.

Murph pulled out a pack of Winstons, lit one right under a 'No Smoking' sign, and took a long drag.

"Logistics," Murph whispered, the smoke curling around his cap. "That’s what they’re callin' it now? Who told you that? Was it Fitzie? Because Fitzie’s a rat. If Jimmy sent you—"

"No one sent me!" I squeaked, me voice cracking. "It’s for the Senior Centre! For the charity!"

"Right. Charity," Murph said, a dark smirk forming on his face. "We did a lot of 'charity' back then. Unloading crates off the docks at 3 AM. No paperwork. Very charitable to the neighbourhood, if you catch my drift. The feds called it 'grand larceny,' but hey, potato, pot-ah-to."

Me pen was trembling. I was pretty sure I was currently interviewing a retired mob enforcer, and me editor had sent me in with a notebook and a smile.

Desperate to change the subject to something safe, I blurted out the first thing I saw on me cheat sheet. "So! I see you’re a massive fan of football! Let's talk about the big game last night. Devastating loss for the Pats. What did you think of the sportsmanship?"

Murph blinked. The tension vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated fury.

"Sportsmanship?!" Murph roared, slamming his fist on the table so hard that me Dunks spilt over. "The friggin' passah had one job! One job! My grandmuthah coulda throwed that ball bettah, and she’s been dead since the Carter administration! They get paid millions of dollahs to throw a pigskin, and they choke like a bunch of frauds!"

"But the Gronk…"

Murph stood up, kicking his chair back, and spent the next twenty minutes pacing the room, launching into a profanity-laced tirade about the coaching staff, the offensive line, and Brady being battered by Denver's defence. He used words I didn't even know existed in the English language, most of them ending in "-ah."

I had sat frozen, frantically writing down words like scumbags, bums, and dink just to look busy.

Finally, Murph stopped, wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and looked down at me. "Anyway. That’s my piece. You put that in the papah."

"I... I will, Murph. Word for word," I lied, knowing Cruella would fire me into the sun if I printed a single syllable of it.

"Good kehd," Murph said, slapping me on the back so hard me lungs rattled. "You’ah alright. For a guy who talks like a leprechaun."

I walked out into the freezing Boston air, threw me notepad into a trash bin on Tremont, and walked straight to the nearest pub. I ordered a Guinness, took a sip, and resolved to tell Cruella that Murph had moved to Florida.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved

Me Extra Hour Of Madness

04 November 2026

Story #2036

R. Linda:

I swear I did not order the Mexican omelette, though I was sorely tempted. I had a turkey club sannie and a latte. That was it, so I can't blame last night on spicy food. Just wanted to get that out of the way before you asked.

I tell ya, this time change business drives me up a pole. I be fed up to the back teeth, I be, with getting used to one time and then having to change back again. It's made me unwaking life hell. 

Just last night I went to bed a wee bit later than usual. I wasn't particularly sleepy, but I willed meself into the sleep state; I did. 

And what happened? A nightmare, that's what. And, in me waking life, a possible divorce in the works.

I had a fantastical dream that I was sitting in a wheelchair outside an old-fashioned, sinister-looking hospital. And I, meself, was in a full-body cast! 

What had happened to me? Why was I wrapped up like a plaster mummy? Had I fallen out of a tree rescuing a bobcat? Been run over by a Bigfoot? Been trampled by escaped cattle?  I dunno. Dreams don't bother explaining these things. They just plop you into the middle of a catastrophe and expect you to get on with it.

So there I was, in me wheelchair, on the hospital grounds, while me wife was inside talking to me doctors. And I wasn't alone, oh no.

Beside me stood me 13-year-old son, Carlito. Yes, Carlito. Now, where I'd acquired a 13-year-old son by that name was beyond me, but there he was, large as life, telling me that his grandpa and granny had moved in temporarily to help out while I recovered. Recovered from WHAT, I still didn't know. 

Anyway, as I studied the lad, I noticed he bore a striking resemblance to a 13-year-old Weasil. And when he grinned at me, I noticed something else. His teeth were yellow. Not slightly yellow, mind you. Yellow enough to make a canary jealous.

"You need to brush your teeth, sonny boy," I said.

"Can't bring meself to go into the lav," he replied.

"And why ever not?"

"Grandpa's teeth are in a glass on the shelf, and they gross me out. Not to mention he's got a battery of pills lined up. He takes one every minute of the day. It's so bad I've started calling him Popsi."

"Popsi? Why?"

"Because he's a pill popper, so Popsi."

I let that sink in.

"And Granny," he continued, "I call Potsie."

"What? Why is that?"

"Because she hallucinates and smokes pot."

I stared at him.

"Since WHEN?"

"I dunno, but she does. She forgets stuff and talks to the air."

Well, that was comforting. Me parents-in-law had apparently turned into a pharmaceutical dispensary and a cannabis lounge.

Then a thought occurred to me.

"Hang on a minute. If you won't use the lavatory, where exactly DO you go?"

"Oh, I go out in the bushes where the dog does her duty."

"WHAT?"

"Yeah, and Popsi renamed your little dog Alma, Poopsie, because the amount of shite and piss boggles his mind. He didn't know it was mine until he caught me taking a leak in the bushes."

"WHAT, WHAT?"

"So now he doesn't call me Carlito anymore. He calls me Pe-peeito. Pe-pee for short. 

I closed me eyes, hoping the conversation might go away. It didn't.

"I guess you could say we are four P's in a pod," he announced proudly. "No, make that five; the pod is a P too."

"STOP IT!"

I'd had enough.

Weasil, was me 13-year-old son; Popsi was popping pills. Potsie was smoking pot. Poopsie was being blamed for the lad's bodily functions, and Pe-peeito was apparently quite pleased with himself.

And there I sat, trussed up like a Christmas turkey, unable to escape.

I needed a smoke; I did. Now I be no smoker. Never have been. But suddenly I had an overwhelming craving for a Virginia Slims. Don't ask me why. I haven't the foggiest.

"You got any ciggies on ya?" I asked.

The lad gave me another of his revolting yellow smiles. And that's when it dawned on me. The yellow teeth! The little blighter was a heavy smoker!

He patted his jacket pocket, reached inside it and produced a carton of cigarettes. A CARTON! At thirteen years of age!

Before I could deliver the fatherly lecture such a discovery demanded, he flipped open the carton and withdrew the longest cigarette I'd ever seen.  It had to be ten inches of pencil-thin tobacco, with another two inches of filter attached.

A full FOOT of cigarette!

I swear, you could have used the thing to measure curtains.

He held up a hand, signalling for me to wait, as though I had anywhere else to go, then rummaged in his pocket for a box of Lucifers. Now there's an old-fashioned term for matches, and where he'd pick it up, I dunno, probably from 'Potsie'.

He struck one, lit the cigarette, and puffed away until he was satisfied it was ready for ME. 

Then, since I was encased in plaster from me neck to me toes, he stuck the blasted thing between me lips. There I sat, looking like a mobster who suffered a very unfortunate encounter with a cement mixer.

The cigarette dangled from me mouth, its glowing end waving about like a miniature lighthouse. Then the ash began falling into me lap. Now, this concerned me greatly. What if the ashes set fire to me lower bits? Here I was, encased in plaster and bandages, unable to move a muscle. I couldn't even scratch me nose, never mind extinguish a fire in me nether regions!

I was contemplating the terrible possibility of having me family jewels roasted when suddenly the lad snatched the ciggie out of me mouth.

"YEOW!"

He took a piece of me lower lip with it! Before I could protest, he shoved the entire cigarette up his jacket sleeve. I sat there in shock, with the filter still stuck to me damaged lip. Then I noticed something peculiar. Smoke was curling out of the top of his jacket. Not a little wisp, mind you. A proper column of smoke. The boy was turning. himself into a chimney!

And THAT was when Tonya appeared. She took one look at me, marched over, and yanked the filter off me bleeding lip. 

"OUCH!"

At precisely the same moment, I heard a much deeper: "OUCH!" I looked up.

Weasil's head was surrounded by cigarette smoke. It billowed out of his collar, drifted past his ears, and rose above his spiky hairdo like a steam locomotive about to leave the station.

I watched, horrified, as he fumbled for his phone. 

Ah, good, I thought. The lad's calling for help. But no. He dropped the phone and threw himself onto the grass. 

"Fire," he whimpered.

Then he began rolling about like a demented sausage on a barbecue. Unfortunately, his phone had landed face-up on the ground, and Siri, ever helpful, sprang into action.

"FIRE ALERT - CALL FIRE DEPARTMENT. FIRE ALERT - CALL FIRE DEPARTMENT."

Tonya turned to me, her face a picture of fury and disbelief. "Is he having an epileptic seizure?"

Before I could answer, Siri piped up again.

"EPILEPTIC SEIZURE IN PROGRESS - CALL 911 IF YOU ARE IN THE USA. EPILEPTIC SEIZURE IN PROGRESS - CALL 999 IF YOU ARE IN THE U.K. EPILEPTIC SEIZURE IN PROGRESS - CALL 112 IF YOU CAN'T GET THROUGH TO 999."

Now, I dunno about you, but there's only so much helpfulness a person can tolerate in a crisis. Tonya had clearly reached her limit. She marched over to the phone, raised one foot, and brought her heel down on Siri's screen-face with a satisfying CRUNCH!

Siri was dead.

Meanwhile, the lad continued writhing on the grass, rubbing his face into the turf as though trying to burrow his way to Australia. Eventually, he sat up. 

And, sweet suffering saints, what a sight!

I thanked the Fates he didn't have a beard at 13 years old because his eyelashes and brows were GONE. His spiked hairdo, which previously looked like something a hedgehog might envy, now sported several round, bald patches. The remaining spikes were singed, and a few tiny embers were still fading out. He looked like a badly extinguished birthday candle. 

Then he spotted his phone.

"ME PHONE!" He shouted. He looked in horror at the smouldering wreck that once housed Siri.

Tonya folded her arms.

"No phone for you, mister! Get yourself up and to the car NOW! I will deal with you later." 

Well, he didn't need telling twice. Off he went, scurrying across the grounds like a dog with its tail between its legs, leaving behind a faint smell of burnt hair and Virginia Slims.

I thought, at last, the nightmare was coming to an end. But no. Suddenly, I heard running footsteps behind me. 

An orderly charged across the grounds carrying a fire extinguisher. He spotted Siri's battered remains, which were beginning to smoke rather ominously, and apparently decided the lithium battery was about to explode. 

He aimed the nozzle. 

PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSH!

A great white cloud of fire retardant engulfed the phone. Siri, already crushed beneath Tonya's heel, was now thoroughly and comprehensively extinguished. There'd be no resurrection for THAT particular assistant.

And there sat I. Bleeding from me torn lower lip. Little red spots decorating me pristine white bandages. Unable to move. Unable to protest. Unable even to wipe me own chin. Nobody said a word. Not one blessed word. Then Tonya let out a long, weary sigh. The sort of sigh a woman makes when she's had enough of husbands, children, cigarettes, mobile phones, and possibly the entire human race. 

She turned to the orderly. "Take him back to the asylum.

THE ASYLUM? Did she say ASYLUM?

Before I could demand an explanation, she marched off in the direction of the car, clearly determined to rip the 13-year-old Weasil a new one.

The orderly took hold of me wheelchair and began pushing. Toward the building. The great, gloomy, old-fashioned building. With its tall windows, forbidding stone walls, and doors that looked as though they locked from the OUTSIDE.

I stared up at it. 

Now that I looked closely, it didn't resemble a hospital at all. It looked like an asylum. A genuine, honest-to-goodness, lock-'em-up-and-throw-away-the-key asylum!

"Er…asylum?" I mumbled. 

The orderly kept pushing.

"ASYLUM?"

No response.

"ASYLUM? ASYLUM? ASYLUM?

I was practically shrieking the word now.

"ASYYYYYLUM!"

And suddenly…

I WAS AWAKE!

I was in me own bed! In me own house! In me own perfectly normal body! 

I yanked me arms out from beneath the blankets and held them up in the dim light.

FINGERS! I had fingers! And they MOVED!

No plaster! No bandages! No wheelchair!

I wasn't a mummy after all! Oh, the relief.

But then, from somewhere behind me, a voice came. A very familiar voice. A very UNHAPPY familiar voice.

"ASYLUM? You want an ASYLUM? I'LL GIVE YOU AN ASYLUM!"

I froze.

"If you don't stop tossing and turning and talking in your sleep, I WILL find an asylum! I get ONE extra hour of sleep, ONE, and YOU are making sure I don't get it!"

There was a pause.

Then, in a tone that could have stripped paint off a wall: "SO STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"

I said not a word. Not one. I lay meself back down, pulled the blankets up, and stayed perfectly still. I didn't dare move a toe.

After a while, I began wondering what in the name of all that's holy had caused such a terrible dream. It had to be the time change. It just HAD to be!

They tell us we're getting an extra hour of sleep, as though it's some wonderful gift from the heavens. Well, I'll tell ya what MY extra hour gave me.

A 13-year-old son I never fathered, a pair of pill-popping and pot-smoking grandparents, a dog blamed for someone else's shite, a foot-long cigarette, a fire, a murdered Siri, and a wife threatening to have me committed.

And I didn't even get to smoke the bloody cigarette!

I lay there another few minutes, listening to Tonya's breathing, wondering if she'd gone back to sleep. Then I had another thought. Come spring, when the clocks go forward, and we LOSE an hour, what in God's name is THAT going to do to me dreams?

I shuddered.

No. No, I wasn't going to think about it. But I will tell ya one thing. Next time I fancy a Mexican omelette, I'm ordering the bloody thing. At least then, if I wake up in an asylum, I'll know who to blame.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved