The Washing Line

The damp, miserable weather didn’t deter the two middle-aged ladies from leaning against their fences, exchanging local gossip and scandals.

Both women were wearing their house coats, hair in curlers wrapped up in a scarf, tied in a floppy bow on top of their heads.

“You know Alf, from number 64?”

“Do you mean May’s old man?”

“Yes, well, you will never believe this.  Ethel saw him leaving number 62 at 6.30 in the morning.  What do you make of that then?”

“I was wondering what Ethel was doing looking out of her window at that time in the morning.”

“Don’t worry about that, but that tart at number 62 has been eyeing up my other half as well.  Hussy!”

“She must be desperate, Alf’s not much to write home about and your old man isn’t much better.”

“There’s no need to get nasty, he’s had an ‘ard life.”

The two women clammed up shut and both watched Susie from number 62 come out into her garden.  She put her washing basket on the ground and proceeded to peg up her smalls along the line.  Each item was met with exchanged looks from the two


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