Can you spot the cliche
October 28th 2006 06:39
This is a test for writers. Can you spot the cliche?
It has been a long day. Twelve hours straight and still an hour from home.
Driving through the dark suburbs, down tree lined streets under the light of a half moon is a great way to unwind from a long day. The thought of my cup waiting with a tea bag in it is a comfort. God I’m tired. I’ll be glad to have that cup of tea, a hot shower then slip into bed next to the wife. And tomorrow off. Only a couple more blocks to go. It’s sort of eerie how all the houses look alike with the colours bleached into a monochromatic gray by the pale moonlight
As I pull into my drive I turn off the engine and roll quietly to a stop just beside the house. As I get out of the car I nearly trip over a bicycle. ‘Shit, I mutter, how many times does he have to be told?’ In the half light of the moon I dodge the skateboard and a basketball, climb the two steps and stick the key in the door, but it’s unlocked. I will have to warn the wife about that again.
Turning on the light as I enter the kitchen I look at the table. My cup is not there and not so much as a tea bag. Oh well it’s no big deal I tell myself. But what’s that on the table? There is a machine with a crank handle on it and two boxes. It is the machine that first catches my attention. I love interesting machinery. Having a closer look I discover it to be a pasta machine. Next to the pasta machine are the two boxes. I pick up the larger one to read the label. Stunned I drop the box. The other box I recognize.
My brain is saying, “Tea please, white with two.” My eyes are saying “what is a pasta machine, a box of edible, cherry flavoured knickers and box of party coloured condoms doing on the kitchen table.” My thoughts oscillate between my cup of tea and the combination of pasta machine, condoms and edible knickers.
I need a clue. I look around the kitchen hoping to find a clue. Maybe it’s not my kitchen. This hope is dashed as I spot my cup on the counter, the cats bowl in the corner and the new stainless steel fridge. And that bloody pasta machine with accessories.
I sit down at the table facing my cup on the counter. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the unholy trio. I want to get up and make a cup of tea but I don’t want to turn my back on that pasta machine. It’s looking a bit too lecherous for my liking. Shit! What the hell am I thinking. It’s too much and I am too tired. I rest my head on my arm on the table. . .
Hearing a noise I look up at the pasta machine. The handle is slowly turning. I watch in silence as the pasta machine churns out cherry flavoured ravioli in party colours. Faster and faster the handle turns until the table is shaking and little rubber wrapped ravioli are sliding off the end of the table. Everything is shaking. I’m shaking. My wife is shaking. She’s shaking me and telling me to wake up. ‘Come on, you silly duffer, it’s time to get up. Why didn’t you come to bed last night? Fancy sleeping on the kitchen table at your age. Now get a move on. Go and have a shower and I’ll make you a cup of coffee. I want you out of the house by ten o’clock. You know you don’t want to be here with all us girls for Sallies hens party.’
‘Huh,’ I say.
‘Sally, your daughter. You know, the one that’s getting married next month. Hens party, today, all those women coming. Honestly. Men are so thick. Now go and have your shower. I have to wrap these gifts’
I’ll Never Eat Pasta Again
It has been a long day. Twelve hours straight and still an hour from home.
Driving through the dark suburbs, down tree lined streets under the light of a half moon is a great way to unwind from a long day. The thought of my cup waiting with a tea bag in it is a comfort. God I’m tired. I’ll be glad to have that cup of tea, a hot shower then slip into bed next to the wife. And tomorrow off. Only a couple more blocks to go. It’s sort of eerie how all the houses look alike with the colours bleached into a monochromatic gray by the pale moonlight
As I pull into my drive I turn off the engine and roll quietly to a stop just beside the house. As I get out of the car I nearly trip over a bicycle. ‘Shit, I mutter, how many times does he have to be told?’ In the half light of the moon I dodge the skateboard and a basketball, climb the two steps and stick the key in the door, but it’s unlocked. I will have to warn the wife about that again.
Turning on the light as I enter the kitchen I look at the table. My cup is not there and not so much as a tea bag. Oh well it’s no big deal I tell myself. But what’s that on the table? There is a machine with a crank handle on it and two boxes. It is the machine that first catches my attention. I love interesting machinery. Having a closer look I discover it to be a pasta machine. Next to the pasta machine are the two boxes. I pick up the larger one to read the label. Stunned I drop the box. The other box I recognize.
My brain is saying, “Tea please, white with two.” My eyes are saying “what is a pasta machine, a box of edible, cherry flavoured knickers and box of party coloured condoms doing on the kitchen table.” My thoughts oscillate between my cup of tea and the combination of pasta machine, condoms and edible knickers.
I need a clue. I look around the kitchen hoping to find a clue. Maybe it’s not my kitchen. This hope is dashed as I spot my cup on the counter, the cats bowl in the corner and the new stainless steel fridge. And that bloody pasta machine with accessories.
I sit down at the table facing my cup on the counter. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the unholy trio. I want to get up and make a cup of tea but I don’t want to turn my back on that pasta machine. It’s looking a bit too lecherous for my liking. Shit! What the hell am I thinking. It’s too much and I am too tired. I rest my head on my arm on the table. . .
Hearing a noise I look up at the pasta machine. The handle is slowly turning. I watch in silence as the pasta machine churns out cherry flavoured ravioli in party colours. Faster and faster the handle turns until the table is shaking and little rubber wrapped ravioli are sliding off the end of the table. Everything is shaking. I’m shaking. My wife is shaking. She’s shaking me and telling me to wake up. ‘Come on, you silly duffer, it’s time to get up. Why didn’t you come to bed last night? Fancy sleeping on the kitchen table at your age. Now get a move on. Go and have a shower and I’ll make you a cup of coffee. I want you out of the house by ten o’clock. You know you don’t want to be here with all us girls for Sallies hens party.’
‘Huh,’ I say.
‘Sally, your daughter. You know, the one that’s getting married next month. Hens party, today, all those women coming. Honestly. Men are so thick. Now go and have your shower. I have to wrap these gifts’
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