Polly put the kettle on

“Polly put the kettle on.

Polly put the kettle on.

Polly put the kettle on.

We’ll all have tea.”

Polly picked up the kettle and walked over to the sink. She turned the tap and began to fill the chrome kettle with fast, splashing water. The weight of the kettle increased as the water began to spill over the brim and sploshed away down the plug hole.

With two hands she heaved it up and out over the sink, past the stove and over to the long-backed chair where Lawrence was sitting. The top of his head was clearly visible and his right hand swished through the air as he continued to hum the merry tune he’d so cleverly created moments ago.

“I say,” he called, not knowing that Polly was standing mere inches behind him, “where’s my te…”


With both hands held tightly around the handle, Polly swung 360 degrees, her arms outstretched and brought the kettle crashing against the side of Lawrence’s head. Blood pumped through the gash in his temple, spilling over the once pristine doilies on each arm of the chair. His torso slumped forward, first his chin hitting his knees, before falling completely to the waxed oak floorboards in a folded mess of human.

Polly stood watching, her eyes wide, her chest heaving. The blood stained kettle pouring water from the spout to her feet as it dangled in her trembling hand.

“Bossy Dick”.

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