The Lost Property office was manned by a bloke that some called “a character.” The less polite simply referred to him as “an arsehole.”
‘Not seen any legs round here,’ he said with a shrug to the worried face in front of him. ‘Sorry.’
He smiled to himself that night as he watered his garden. The prosthetic leg made a handsome plant pot, he thought.
A pang of guilt threatened to surface for a second, but he quashed it. “If it was that important, they wouldn’t have lost it in the first place,” he muttered.
Yes. He was an arsehole.Follow Ellie Scott on WordPress.com