The Return of the Harmonica

Best Friend calls me up at work one morning this week.

“Hey there, guess what we found in that bag you sent us home with on the weekend!”

(non-stop gentle cherubic sounds of screaming toddlers in the background, punctured by off-key toots)

“Is that a harmonica I hear?”

“Yup. Was that on purpose?”

“No! I wouldn’t be so cruel! It must have fallen in there when the bag was sitting on the ground at some point.”

“OK, just wanted to check, just in case it was intentional.”

“Yah, that was my evil plan, leave you at home all week while the daycare provider’s on holiday with two toddlers and one harmonica. Man, if ever I needed payback, that would be it. But I swear I didn’t, besides, Bonhomme would never forgive me if he knew!”

“Well, I guess I know where we’re going today -”

(we both shout in unison) “The dollar store!”

“Good luck, my friend. Godspeed.”


“I owe you a glass of wine, I think. You’ve been contaminated by my house of clutter.”

“Yeah, it’s a harmonica, remember? That’s not worth a glass – you owe me a bottle.”



1 comment so far

  1. Moosilaneous on

    In my defense, I’d like to point out that our dear author may have used a soupcon (just assume there’s a cedilla udner the “c”)of poetic licence.

    I don’t think I actually accused her of sedition quite so directly, but then, my memory is somewhat affected by two weeks of toddler mayhem.

    I’ll definitely be collecting the wine, though.

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